I took rebirth in the last column
of the newspaper,
where your obituary is printed, you
as a zombie.

Remember?
Every time you touch
performed metamorphosis
and turned into violent beatings.
For days, I balanced my sanity
amidst grim medications
and the aroma of hot antiseptic.

Remember?
I listed you myself as a vegan,
and on our first fight,
you locked me hungry.
On the third day, you
shoved canned mackerel fish
and Haywards 5000 down my throat.
Your butter-yellow, reptilian face
smirked, and you punched your claws
into my throat until I vomited
from the food overload.

You were a harasser
you dissected my soul in your laboratory,
refrigerated my warm tears
to crystallize my agony.

Now, you are dead, entitled to
lie in a cursed sarcophagus.
You tried to veil me the Cleopatra
and ruined my reign,
reducing it to ruins.

I am coming now,
collecting fragments of my soul
from your laboratory,
garnishing my tears
to detect your dead self
with my renewed photoreception.

I will mummify you
under my irascible tutelage;
you will fracture into fragments
under my guided redemption.

Your reincarnation will publish
my story in the universe’s records,
when it invites your soul back to earth
only to crumble into the dirt.

.    .    .