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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s