There is a grave-garden
somewhere underneath
my heart.
It smells of
rustic stardust
and curdled sighs.
My hair
it gets tangled up
with the bones of the flowers
and it kind of makes it hard to
walk around with all of that sound.
To them
its the sound of a poor girl making a ruckus.
To me
its the sound of
dead things.
I was born a blonde,
but my hair is now blacker
than the spaces of untold truths.
-Arizona