I don’t know that
there’s any poetry left in me
I think I’ve bled out everything by now,
all my sadness washed away
by a monsoon of tears.
Yes, there’s only emptiness left,
keep knocking but
my hair falls out stupidly and thickly
even at your kind touch.
My veins show underneath my skin now
and I can’t remember not counting my ribs
My mother says I’m fading away
But it’s just a shell belatedly
following a soul already dead.
Then again
this is a poem, is it not?
And Hope still lingered in that Pandora’s box
Perhaps even corpses can still love
Beautiful, will you be my salvation?
Your golden hair
makes me believe in resurrection.