i have sealed all the papercuts on my skin;
they have become unmarked,
and the willows have long learned
to do their weeping in the dark;
there can never be enough tears,
never enough mourners
dressed in all the shades of black
to share all this grief
in its most abstract form.
oh, to hear the farewells,
to feel the poems,
to see the wreaths
tossed all over the place
and yet, there can never be enough flowers in the world
to hide these wrists —
all scars and lines for everyone to see
and everyone to read
as if epitaphs to a gravestone;
these wrists —
all scratches from a girl buried by mistake;
the casket, the ground
can only do so much.
you write way too much about death
and his earthly belongings.
maybe one day he'll do the same.
— The End —