potter's field

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.

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