By B.A. O'Connell
Editor's Note: Due to the formatting of this work, it is best viewed on desktop.
Inside my bones
there is a sickness, is a rot,
in me a corruption—
there is a thing turned wrong and backwards
until my once
healthy heart;
it becomes maliciously devoured—
I am a foot in and a foot out
it splits me
down the middle—
white gowned funeral;
Maybe you see me there
with my skeleton making
me move all kinds of
wrong,
and I just want to mourn
like anyone else
but there is nothing here for me,
nothing to take,
nothing to give,
I become
like a collection
of exoskeletons
and rat tails that are
chewed up viscera
littering the floor
of my once home.
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