I tell myself with a shaking voice,
"I can fly away."
As though i do not have broken wings,
As though i am not so thoroughly grounded
that to fly would be a miracle.
I don't believe in miracles.
I believe in the fact that i will be buried
and forgotten by all that knew me
when i die.
That when i become a lifeless body,
i will be gone. Because no one will remember me.
And sure, you may think to yourself,
How should this inane poet know anything?
But i have gutted words for meaning,
I have crossed over barren lands of nothing-ness
and seen death before me.
And I have called it beautiful.
Because even though the morbid undercurrent
to that train-wreck of a thought
may run strong and harsh,
I have seen beauty in death,
and therefore I am the most morbid of all.
I call the process to becoming a cadaver
a pretty little thing,
because sometimes it is.
And so, by the juxtaposition of death and me,
I think that becoming a macabre memory
beheld in slitted words bleeding like red-black blood
between this poet's raw hands,
is not quite as ugly
as people would want to assume.