Yesterday, they killed me.
They closed my eyes.
My cold, tumid body floats on the reflective surface of your your mind,
an endless ocean filled with trash, reflecting a neon-lighted sky.
I know you see it from the shore, thinking I'm swimming.
Instead I'm drowned by the brown water they disposed
in the once clear pond, your mind, therefore
they killed me.
This acid, melted ideals, burned my flesh
and ate me.
Yesterday, I died.
Today, we go down the hill to bury me.
I have to carry my coffin, while the priests lie their sermons in it.
They smile.
“This coffin looks great on you.”
You cry at my funeral,
I wish it wasn't just rain streaming down your cheeks.
I wish you would have known me.
“Those cheekbones” they pray “they should stick out more”
before they send me into the earth.
I wish you would have known me.
Today, they buried me.
Tomorrow I'll be rotten.
“See”, the skeleton will say, “ain't I beautiful now?”
“Those cheekbones” they'll pray.
No answer and
Tomorrow, you'll wish you hadn't raised a dead child.
YOU ARE READING
They Raised A Dead Child
Non-FictionI tailored my anorexia and personality disorder a new dress. It probably doesn't even make any sense, but for some reason I needed to write something really weird and creepy down. I didn't edit it, I couldn't. That's what it's all about, getting tha...
