Commingler

In shambles of my subliminal space
I pare you, placing you
in meathook of my meter.

These stir up imprints
of how horripilation is a habit.
I am ashamed to admit;
you’re not my hapax legomenon.
I am done. Cadavers, too, come
with a sell-by date.

Who is the adjudicator? Am I
an emotional gigolo or, are sighs
of singe for the sake of art?