the ghostly whisper of despair
lingers on ice-cold neck,
like lead, creeping,
like vines, crawling
like veins on quartz.

bash it. bash it.
bash it on my wrists.

lately, i try to write poetry but all that spills is violence;
i am a woman possessed. *******. all foul, sulfur scent.
this lace nightgown is weary from holding together
loose bones, loose skin, loose soul.

and the sunless sky has buried its dead,
all in bleeding, black mourning veil ensemble.
and i am gray — gray as a body drained of blood.

and with all these autumns i've spent bleeding, god,
have i not bled enough?