Skeleton in my closet:
A past that skins me.
Sucking me dry,
Gnawing at my bones,
Until I’m skeletoned.
.
We’re each other’s blots.
A persistent stain
That I want so painfully to vanish.
It’s so virtuously varnished,
So I rub it raw.
Letting myself bleed
Is sweeter than the nostalgia
I’m so prone to.
.
And when I see you,
I swear that skeleton smirks.
And I swear I can’t take it.
A wave brings
A cascading rush,
Burying me in soil:
Cadavered.
.
I heard
All skeletons look the same.
So why does this one feel different?
So percussive and piercing.
Gravediggers carry my bag of bones.
Lay them to the earth
For some pagan purification
Of all the world’s wrongs.
To be used is nice.
But battered bones
Are worth nothing to spirits otherworldly,
Who much more deserved them.
.
My hallowed bones
Form hollowed tones.
Carved to caress
Some culmination
Of us.
Bodies on a throne
Disgustingly meld.
Rotting flesh
Sending sonorous signs.
A simulacra of love
Founded in fantasies, faithfully fake.
.
And perched on my tailbone,
Sits a one-eyed raven
Carrying along a spirited ballad,
Into a gentle breeze.
Somber.
Sweet.
Even its odious squawks
Will coalesce to an ode.
So the world
Feels felt by my festering fondness.
And I’m glad.
Oh, so glad
To finally be used.
