text version
Spoiler! :
i hang up photos of my tear-stained skin,
waiting for the blood to dry from crimson to amaranth.
i cut away their memories and all that
remains are bitter reminders of sufferance, fragments
of aching i hold in the palm of my hand.
later, i will put those to rest, too.
through the window, my lawn is a graveyard;
unmarked tombstones lined with torn photographs
of what i used to think of as sentience, but
i’ve been burying the dead since i was made alive.
i cannot remember what died here.
the film is still hanging up to dry, but i have carved it
into mutilation to the point of obscurity,
unrecognizable even to the most familiar eye—
i choose to let the body live so the memory may die.
waiting for the blood to dry from crimson to amaranth.
i cut away their memories and all that
remains are bitter reminders of sufferance, fragments
of aching i hold in the palm of my hand.
later, i will put those to rest, too.
through the window, my lawn is a graveyard;
unmarked tombstones lined with torn photographs
of what i used to think of as sentience, but
i’ve been burying the dead since i was made alive.
i cannot remember what died here.
the film is still hanging up to dry, but i have carved it
into mutilation to the point of obscurity,
unrecognizable even to the most familiar eye—
i choose to let the body live so the memory may die.
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