letters to the moon [poetry]

the bird

weeks ago, i saw myself in a
bird corpse-
it
wriggling with maggots,
both dry and soggy with the staleness of
being forgotten,
half gone and slightly oozing
oh but, the chest
the chest so very fragile and
the solider feathers still
vibrant, glistening
with afternoon sunlight-
(a true masterpiece of death)

i stood, debating,
wondering,
if i am worth the respect of
properness,
and i walked, ruminating,
questioning,
if it was silly to bury a
self portrait

it should be said i went back-
i laved it up off sidewalk, so gently,
my own new-born child,
and met gravity: a cleaver
the head flopped,
like a fish dying just to glup,
and i could see where persistent
flesh became hooks
into rot, i whispered:
"it's okay, you can
  let go- there is no dignity
  in death anyways"

cushioned, pieces were cradled in kleenex,
and offered to shallow earth
the placement, right next to a
crinkling creek
where the neighborhood deer like to
gather and gossip

i sit there now
it is the only place where peace
feels like loose herbal tea
and
soft eucalyptus leaves
you know, like actual peace

i think
i was never in love with
you

i am starting to see that you were
the best example
of
unimportance, except maybe,
you were important
but
only in the sense that i was taught
i am more than you

i think
i was in love with what you
meant
to know you could look
and see more than tangible,
proved
i exist outside of myself

i have always been a narcissist in
good girl clothing,
and
i think i must have fallen
in love with
you
being in love with
me

the gutteral removal of us,
left a perpetual cycle of
space
and i had to find ways to fill
it;
i can not love myself without a
middle man

it is a unique horror:
chasing yourself
maybe i truly am bird pieces
maybe i just need to tear at what is now
winter dirt,
pick out the skeleton shards,
and eat them for dinner
maybe, just maybe,
i will then become whole

but
you know how winter dirt is
it likes
to build a hotel under your nails
and invite friends over;
friends
that smell empty and sour
then
your nail technician will turn
up her nose,
and refuse to give you french tips;
the ones
you need for your aunt's wedding,
but
you know how aunt's are
they
won't let you be a bridesmaid
if you don't have
french tips,
and if you aren't a bridesmaid,
your mother
will tell you just how much of
a disappointment you are,
even
if she didn't mean it in "that way",
and
you can try to deny it,
until angry tornadoes into
hysterical,
but

you know how mothers are

sometimes, i ask
bird me
if it feels better down there;
they never answer
i wonder
if i ever will.