I can throw make up like confetti at my own funeral, a coffin with mirrored walls.
Teeth stand in my mouth like headstones in a grave yard,
a bouquet of rose red lips withered under the storm clouds in my eyes.

My body is here in front of you and yet, I am 6 feet under.
Secrets bore into my rotting mind like maggots gouging on the putrid remains.

There will be no hymns at the funeral, no prayers on the tips of tongues.
Just fish hooks caught in throats, of women you have baited, trophies cast aside.
You’ll learn that silence portrays hidden wars of the mind.

My body is here in front of you and yet, we are 6 feet under.
Your fingernails ***** from pulling the soil over our final resting place.