She is a broken spinal column on your bathroom floor,
leaking old regrets like fluid and calling you beloved
when no other words seem to hold any weight to her.
In the realm of the living you are a ghost.
In the realm of the dying you are a specter,
in the realm of the dead you are a stranger.
She is a creaking skeleton following you in the dark
when you’re home alone and wary of the corners,
her bony fingers rattling when she reaches for you.
In the absence of honor we have dignity.
In the absence of loyalty we have blood-oaths.
In the absence of decency we have manners.
She is a self-made grave filling up with hesitation
instead of bodies, being re-filled with diamonds instead of
soil and you’re just the cloud of cigarette smoke in the distance.
In the hollows of our bones we keep our souls.
In the space between our lungs we keep our sacrifices.
In the caverns of our mouths we keep our secrets.