2/30 - From an old prompt, but a new poem

Execute. Command.

During the bloody sunset, my still-born twin told me I come from a sickle blade of executioners. Our hands, large and terminal. Two sets, one visible except to victims. We live in torsos, the hollowed out spines of men born of gallows and mischief. In the throats of liars, the railroad track wrists of thieves, their fingers sprawl out like fleshy firecrackers when bone is kissed by cleaver. The light we see in strangulation cannot be simulated, the growth of a knotted rope from the back of a husband slayer’s neck is a progress few can speak. My heart is a hornets’ nest of moans. A wild dog with a filthy coat, that has learned to forgo the carrot for the swing of the stick. When I speak, you can hear the scythe scraping the back of my teeth, the hardened glaciers in my gums, pinning spirits back onto my tongue. My apologies are always post-mortem, falling upon the ears of those that no longer need them.