It's hard to feel alive when things are constantly dying inside you.
Some nights, I comb through all my well-kept chaos as if a secret lover visiting a grave. These nights, I forget to breathe.
I am sick of asking the cobwebs how the smallest gap in my ribs can make room for this much pain. It has grown into a woodland — and I, the lost, the helpless prey; the odd girl out.
Look for my bones among wild lilacs, covered in forest soil, darling, and you'll know that some deaths you don't mourn and some deaths you can't.
Some nights, I comb through all this well-kept chaos in search for a sign of life, but my flesh has been a map of cigarette burns and vague memories of dying; strangers have been sick of laying kisses on things that taste like they've been bleeding — on things that taste like death. Maybe one day, I, too, will be sick enough to stop prodding wounds open to leave poems in the doorstep of the things rotting inside me.
Then again, some sorrows you don't turn into poetry. Some sorrows you just feel.
Some nights, I comb through all this well-kept chaos. Other nights, I bury it beneath my floorboard, hoping that there will be no haunting — no pounding; just peace.
But then, some chaos you learn to live with; some, you don't survive.