Only these skeletons
know
how exhausted I am
in facing a dull day
with people.
I tattooed in my mind
that I must be the skeleton
I am wearing;
I must be the someone
that people
want me to be.
But in all my skeletons
could do,
they chose to make
one of their kind
out of their bones.
They want me to wear it;
they want me to be me,
not be them.
So I clothed it with my skin
and swore to honor them
for eternity.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Şiir[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
