Mourn

I haven’t spoken to you the way I’m supposed to
With a bare chest and a voice as shrill as my thoughts,
With a wine glass cracking because one night I screamed too loud,
With unclipped fingernails that dig deeper with every breath
Into the soaked flesh of liars that are hidden in their nests,
With the tightness of an invisible rope unraveling itself
And blood on my hands hoping to go unnoticed till it’s dry again,
With a spine that’s growing bigger than the shadow cast
By the artificial lighting in your shrines where corpses fast
“Unto death” tattooed across their chests
Like a standing joke gone too far
For death and dead bodies, there need not be a war.

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