"The mourning Dove
I'm addicted to peeling the layers of his ceiling, the parts of him he says are living.
Searching for all sorts of meanings, feeding myself all these weak things.
As if leftovers had the warmth of a brand-new meal, chewing him any other way doesn't appeal.
A part of me thinks I'm healing, the unappealing need to push and shove everything he's giving.
The truth is my soul is starving for a feeling, I'm concealing the pain from releasing, and the thing is leaking.
His loving is pleasing every part of me, and I'm tearing.
The touch of his hand amusing, but just enough to keep me confusing every part of it with acting,
The chill down my spine keeping me from burning.
I'm willing to feast if this grim feeling starts fading.
Maybe I'm just not worthy of accepting the glimmer he's giving.
I always come back, unapologetically starving.
I'm longing for that feeling,
Is it selfish to think of? This need for love?
The way he seems to like becoming my mourning dove."
—Modesto (Sigilio, short.)
©Goathico December 2023
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Tell Death Where They Hid My Bones
Historia CortaSometimes I don't know if I write from my heart or from my head. Drowned in grief and sorrow, I try to get up to escape to never ever. I would like to be reborn again. Born in my body. Collection of writings by the artist and writer Goathico. ©Goa...
