She's begging to me
through rattling teeth
and broken bones
made of ash.

Her body quivers
as cold wet hair
sticks to her skin.

She is begging for mercy
Dare I deny her of it?

Getting through to her
was like trying
to talk to the window
with the blinds closed
and the curtain's drawn.

To loathe oneself
is an art,
I suppose we
are all artists
one in form or another.

She was teacups made of China
and sunny spring afternoons.

She was soup
on the stove
when it was raining and grey
outside.

She was the gentle touch
of a birds feather
landing on my nose.

She was comfort in its essence,
and I hope to never lose her.

For what my father did to me,
at the very least
was not
what his father
had done to him.

When you learn
that we are nothing more
than silk wrapped bone
and mortality,
then peace will flood you
and the gates to existence
will open.

Remember whose bones
built your floorboards
before you lay a house
on their backs.