Oxygen

I take pleasure
in disecting you,
studying
your pulsing veins
as they slowly stop
their infernal beating.

I love to see you
wither like a dying rose
upon my tabletop;
Trapped in glass
and deprived of oxygen,
you are so beautiful.

When you die,
I will stand above you,
running my fingers
over your porcelain face;
So startling in contrast
to the crimson on your neck.

I warned you;
“Don’t try to run”.
You are mine
and nobody elses.

I keep you in a snowglobe
by my bedside,
and every so often
watch you disappear
in the flurry of vermiculite.

I love to see you drown
in this ornament’s tempest.
Deprived of oxygen,
you are so beautiful.