has she ever told you
how much she wanted
to rip out the walls
and pull on dis-
jointed beams
you once tried
to hang yourself
like a bat
b'cos you died to
sleep in the same
pitch
inside there was a
crawl space
and she clawed at
the splintered wood
dreading to find you
in this void
***
did she spill concrete
down your throat
so you'd breathe
in pseudobones
the ones you claim
as your own
or did she smash
every mir'or
since she knows
they live in the
dimensions of self
and it would be easy
to let you die
YOU ARE READING
atrophy
Poetrysaturdays "from my rotting body flowers shall grow, and I am in them, and that is eternity." -edvard munch
