Broken Wings
I have known some floras I wanted at my own funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored me that day.
I split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I foresee deathbeds.
My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die,
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body,
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.
But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
alarming the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths,
while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the poltergeist residing under my bed.
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