Bodies in My Closet

LXV

This is not a poem.
I won't attempt to make it one, at least.
This is not a letter.
Too many people have burned mine
and I can't bring myself
to spend ten minutes
with a pen in my hand
for them to read, cherish,
and then spit on when I turn away.
My words are beginning to repeat
and so are my thoughts,
compulsive and constant.
The dread I carry with me
is heavier than
the black Jansport backpack
I bring with me almost everywhere.
My burdens are something
I can't place in the hands of another.
The dark trail I leave behind
should be enough
for me to disappear
before you can even see me.

- This October was Chilly