Necking with Death

In 2022

Death gave my neck a kiss.

Sweet and small, a peck,

a smudge,

it grew, longing to eat me up,

as some kisses do.

His jealous foe, bound by oath,

some unsung hero,

cut it out like a bullet,

like a tongue and now

it heals into the shape,

the blush, of a fresh hickey

or rosy mouth smashed

and swollen with kissing,

spitting out its teeth

of stitches.