I roll up my skirt
And carve silence into my skin.
My foot on the gas,
I close my eyes
And let the noise trickle out of me.

Up on the hill,
I lay drunk among the headstones,
Crying into darkness
Until I fall asleep on a pillow of hyacinth.

I find comfort with the dead.
Here, my tears soak into the earth
That cradles their bones
And I imagine that the hurt they carry
Is laid to rest just the same.

The rows of past lovers, sisters, and friends
Emit a quiet understanding.
They remind me that this oscillating ache
Will one day return to the dirt.
My torment is just as temporary as my joy,
Which is as transient as all things.

Though the veil of suffering will lift,
It is only a matter of time before it falls again.
And knowing that respite will arrive
Does not bring it to me any sooner.

So I will scream and beg
For even a moment of solace.
My fists pound the grass
And I writhe in my agony,
Knowing that I look like a child.

But my fictional family
That lie six feet beneath me
Reach up their phantom arms
And embrace me with a kind of love
That can only be found in the delusions
That I fabricate to comfort myself.

Their grasp keeps me from joining them
In their graves
And lifts me to stumble home in the dark.