Something I recently wrote. A bit gory. I hope you like it.

Pale skeleton fingers.
Pale and slim, bones
pressed
against her mouth.
"What's that?"
She tries to hide from me in a swirl of hair. but
I see the dark
shiny
red
seeping between the pale, pale bars
seeping from the shadows between
skeleton fingers.
Blood-coated lips--
dripping, spraying in a storm so powerful, so coarse and raw and rough
that it hurts, it hurts, it hurts my own throat and ears to hear it.
A crimson trickle down a pale cheek,
leaving hints and wisps on her teeth.
as though she'd been gorging on something
alive.
Eerie.
My heart catches.
But still
I ask
I must ask
Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything that I can do?
Shakes
in a thin body and a protruding spine,
pointed wristbones, stick legs and rounded knees,
my heart comes crashing down in a million sharp little fragments
that catch in my throat and pierce my mind as
she says "No".
There's nothing to be done but watch.
In the dark, I'm inadequate and insubstantial, a human ghost trying to catch the drips and pools of sticky blood.
This has gone on long enough.
Dying, she's dying.
Her body, in the way it shakes, I see--
heat waves rise.
She is ripping herself apart, burning herself up
from the inside. Truly, inexorably dying.
Will she not find peace, not ever, until only bleached-white bones remain,
a gleaming pearl skull, grinning up at the stars and the sky,
'this is what you've done to me,
I've had enough.'
Forever?
I reach for her because I have to, but holding her thin body does no good. But I have to. I have to. I can't just do nothing. To simply watch would render me truly void and nothing else.
Bones poke and skin stretches grotesquely as I pull her chilling body tight against my hot one, feel
as shivers and slivers of ice
meet flame. A broiling contradiction, an explosion burning from the stomach out. She twists and contorts, grimacing in agony with that bloody mouth.
"Enough!"
She goes still, her skeleton arms limply tangled, twined in mine. I
turn her face to me. "But you're so young! So strong..."
She exudes such power and she has life yet.
I brush her hair off her fresh, young face, and realize,
that her painful coughing is merely an echo of mine, of my burning lungs.
That my mouth fills with warm sticky salt and spills over my chin, too.
That her swirls of gold, her soft hair falls just as mine does and always has.
Her frightened, half-dead eyes mirror mine, I see with rising terror as I feel the swelling behind my lids.
I soothe her stick-thin body with my own white skeleton arms,
and as she begins to cry, her tears mingling with the blood and washing clean streaks down her face,
my own eyes sting and spill over, and she blurs and warps under my teary line of sight.
Her hollowness is something I feel like a black cavern under my own skin, rushing into my own lungs.
As she is inevitably, painfully fading, her pretty, elaborate story coming to an abrupt end,
I realize,
I know and see and feel, in the emptiness,
that I am dead already
and it is my own bloody body,
my own pale skeleton stretched-skin body, cradled
in a weeping stranger's arms.
Lifeless, lips bubbling red, eyes closing
forever.

Um, so. Yeah. Let me know what you think.