I wrote this a few months ago, inspired by the book Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite. I have had it work shopped at a writers camp I attended, but I just want to know what the great people of the internet think. Please judge fairly, but don't be an *** just for the sake of it.
This
It is almost like birth,
Something remembered, but not recalled.
I remember the dark lines and rivulets of blood,
The pale yellow gleam of sickly fat under the skin,
Thick organs being pulled out by their sinews,
And yet I cannot recall pain.
Dying is an experience I would gladly welcome again,
But only if I could witness it.
Like a bird from above
Watching myself being pulled apart.
Seeing orifices never explored.
The darkness came too quickly
I thought to myself, eyes blind, ears deaf
Swimming through the womb of afterlife.
I wished I had seen the latticework of veins deconstructed,
My fibres stretched until ripped,
Unresisting flesh yielding to sharp nails and teeth,
A cacophony of breaking bones.
It is almost like birth,
A body deconstructed, not formed.
(If you are not all that bright and cannot understand this poem, it is a about a murder victim that has become obsessed with his own death.)

