lately, i am a wreckage of bones
sinking into an internal wound.
if woolf had been alive,
she would carefully fill her pockets
with rocks, falling off a gravestone
and tread,
slowly into my skin —
all drenched and waist-deep
in a heavy, black dress.
and down, she slips away.
oh to never resurface
has its certain poetic appeal
so send some flowers
to the bottom of the lake —
it is now a deathbed
for my weary bones.
and down, down, they slip away.
lately, i am but prosaic murmurs
and bloated flesh
and i guess the difference
between drowning and sinking
is the art of giving up.
i guess the difference is that
here, sirens do not sing to lure;
they all still
and mourn a poet's death.
so young,
so wrong,
so tragic.
and lately, i am a wreckage of bones
sinking into an internal wound.
and down, i go.
and down, i sink.
and down,
i slip away.
