and I know/ I tell myself/ don’t raise the dead/ but I have walked in this graveyard so long/ there is no sound no breath no anything/ (and I am not lonely but)/ no nothing and I know/ I am known/ to make mountains out of molehills but grave mounds/ are identical no matter what way you cut them/ (what spell will help me this time?)/ what words/ I write you/ into existence/ spectre/ ghoul/ (what name can I give you? what name will make you mine?)/ how do I bury these/ these broken parts of myself/ this bouquet of bones/ song of mourning/ wind whistling through willows weeping and I/ not to be dramatic but how can I/ trust you with resurrection if my name/ is a dead thing/ in your mouth/ I have tasted myself on your breath/ and we are dead and dying all the time/ if this is what love feels like/ there is nothing I would not prefer over it
Serene writes about people, places, and patterns. When she isn’t writing, she’s probably sleeping, scrolling Twitter, or listening to the Les Mis soundtrack for the nth time. She tries to tell true stories. Well, most of the time.
photo by Taya Iv (via unsplash)