My insides were scraped,
Molded, and shaped
Into words on the pages,
And my eyes watched
In silent horror (silent pleasure)
As the fire devoured emotional
Responses, (hopes) to the
Fabrication of reality you made
Me wear.

Grey dreams, papery lies
That streaked the pages of my hands.
Burnt poetry is the best kind
(Burnt memories are the best kind)


The tapping at my door
Keeps waking me up
And it isn't a raven
Asking me about some
Eleanor.
No, it is the urn, full
Of ash and imaginings
It rattles with displeasure;
I shall let it go.

Heavy, but light in my arms,
Taking the cinders to the sea
(Finally, I'd let you free.)
Only to have oxygen transform
And disfigure ash into butterflies;
They attacked ruthlessly, at my face
With kisses that brought back memories.

I blew out my wish
"Let this be my last" And
Suddenly, there was nothing
Just the results of paper and
Calefaction.