The Draft Under the Door

It’s never easy, when talking about the dead,
I was dead once, bare to the bone, brought to tears that
Eroded the strands, that slopped off–

It’s never easy, to talk about the dark,
The noises in the dead silent, day,
The rotted ships left at the bottom,
The moving sheet at the edge of your eyes,
The rolling metal in the shadows. Each one
A knife.

It’s never easy, when talking about the wicked,
I was killed once, struck in the back, run over by
Pain that scratched at the ankles from under the bed.

It’s never easy, to discuss the dead,
The hope to fall off the bridge,
The hope to drown, buried alive,
The hope to let the cord tighten,
When the coffin slammed shut.

It’s never easy, dealing with silence,
After being buried alive,
After being left to die,
After being burned to death,
After being cut, from the same
Skeleton in your closet.

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