1104

The Crickets sang
And set the Sun
And Workmen finished one by one
Their Seam the Day upon.

The low Grass loaded with the Dew
The Twilight stood, as Strangers do
With Hat in Hand, polite and new
To stay as if, or go.

A Vastness, as a Neighbor, came,
A Wisdom, without Face, or Name,
A Peace, as Hemispheres at Home
And so the Night became.

but I will miss
writing
in the afterlife.

it was the only way
I could slice open my veins
and bleed out my words
without making a mess.

If I were to be a day,
It would be overcast
And I'm not even sure that light
Would come, or ever last. 

If I were to be a breath,
I would be shallow
Hard to take, hard to keep
From a chest too hollow. 

If I were to be a heart,
I would be almost whole
Except for the time I let it sit out
And you pinpricked a hole. 

If I were to be a house,
I'd have an iron-bound door
Nothing would enter without my say
And I wouldn't go out anymore. 

If I were to be a song,
You'd never hear my words
They'd be in a language you don't know
The language of hurt.

Everytime he hit my mother I swear my skin would be bruised for days.