Where is the good in me? Where is the innocence that I used to feel vibrantly and be intimately familiar with? Where did I go because I cannot find myself. There are fibers enclosing everything I’ve lost. Sweaters made from it.
A LETTER TO THE MORTICIAN
You’re a drop of what once was.
I am parts of parts of parts of parts of parts of parts of…
Chop up that pedestal like an iconoclast; use it as kindling.
I will never be what you deserve.
We’ll both be bleeding forever,
stretching out lifelessly like twin cadavers.
I put organ donor on my identification
but upon first inspection it will become clear
that there is nothing worth harvesting here.
All I have left is empty space.
I must be the only human living on words alone.
Once I am open just fill me with her love letters
and sew me back together.
Back into the scripted scream of reality I’ll venture.
I’ll search for my heart and try
to understand how it is still pumping fistfuls of my blood;
how I can salvage it in sheaves of letters
that carry her handwriting.
