this poem is a lovechild
of my weary skin
and the sensual creeping of an all-consuming melancholia;
my voice, hoarse
from calling for the gods
whose names all fall away
at the sight of my undoing —
besides, who falls apart
at ungodly hours
but sinners?
why hast thou forsaken me —
there no longer is a need for this
when they had all forgotten your name
hours before the daybreak.
and yet everyday, i still wake,
waiting for this bed to collapse
under the weight of my hollow bones, holding
the weight of the frailest chaos
to ever befall these sorry sheets —
i thirst,
for a new kind of skin, unstained,
untouched —
wide enough
to hold all this weight of sadness
lying in these sorry sheets.
i've wanted too many epitaphs for a girl who's still alive;
today it's started wanting me back.
now, i tire,
wrap the cloth around my skin:
all ashen, all stench,
all cold, all dead.
now take this poem.
take this lovechild in your arms —
all brown eyes and little hands;
half melancholia;
barely a girl.
now take this body;
take its peace.
bury it in a pauper's field.
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
this poem is a lovechild
of my weary skin
and the sensual creeping of an all-consuming melancholia;
my voice, hoarse
from calling for the gods
whose names all fall away
at the sight of my undoing —
besides, who falls apart
at ungodly hours
but sinners?
why hast thou forsaken me —
there no longer is a need for this
when they had all forgotten your name
hours before the daybreak.
and yet everyday, i still wake,
waiting for this bed to collapse
under the weight of my hollow bones, holding
the weight of the frailest chaos
to ever befall these sorry sheets —
i thirst,
for a new kind of skin, unstained,
untouched —
wide enough
to hold all this weight of sadness
lying in these sorry sheets.
i've wanted too many epitaphs for a girl who's still alive;
today it's started wanting me back.
now, i tire,
wrap the cloth around my skin:
all ashen, all stench,
all cold, all dead.
now take this poem.
take this lovechild in your arms —
all brown eyes and little hands;
half melancholia;
barely a girl.
now take this body;
take its peace.
bury it in a pauper's field.
Request permission to use this poem