Sometimes
I think
My body is a
Cemetery
Nestled in a
Deep
Dark
Wood
Defended
By the old loves
Baying to the moon.
Sometimes
I think
My bones were
Only meant
To consume
Every hurricane
With grace and fascination.
Sometimes
I think
That I am
Too tired
To take another
Broken defeat.
But I am a
Home
For the dead,
I am a vessel
For mismatched memories,
Crooked smiles,
Calloused palms,
I am a concept
I am always
A
Stranger
In the end