tw
i. october
i am a house burning down
and if i cannot make it out of this body,
at least, let me knit lilacs on my skin
where my wounds are in their softest —
where they hurt the most.
it is easy to look at a girl
and call her trembling poetry.
it is easy to look at a girl
and not see an arsonist.
it is easy to read a poem
and not see the disconnect.
ii. november
i am a boneyard of butterflies —
and these roads know too well the way
a grass blade wounds my feet.
i remember their faint way of hurting —
oh how it had dwindled into normalcy.
and yet maybe when you play numb long enough,
everything slowly does.
iii. december
i remember reading epitaphs as a kid;
it is eighteen years too late
for a half-meant apology
and soon enough,
when the woodsmoke lifts, you'll see
wisterias tying the noose,
swinging lovingly from these corpse-cold fingers.
i remember writing epitaphs.
each word — a love child my tombstone never knew.
iv. january
say my farewells to summer, i cannot wait.
soon, someone will walk me slowly to a river —
all pressed tux and a lace wedding dress
and hold my head down,
gently, softly,
until each tiny breath has escaped
this mad house.
this boneyard.
this mouth.
i do.
i do.
i do.
fin.
