one day the tendon binding my lungs en masse will rupture and recoil / and every sinew or ligament that held me together will commence to fall apart / and fray into little ribbons that decorate my insides like confetti / so that when they examine the body / they'll say:
1) no one understands why.
2) she was far too beautiful to die.
(but no one will make a post-mortem on the grief inside my bones.)
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Poetrythe silhouettes your eyelashes construct upon slavic cheekbones #42 in poetry 20/07/18 #40 in poems 16/08/18 #34 in poetic 20/12/18 © charlieisaneatfacade 2018
