Misery, from Grief Lessons

don't tell the dead

Don't tell them
I wounded so many times
I became the knife
that there are still stitches
left unhealed into scars:

father didn't speak
as a child I already
had fossilized grief
when every kid
called me freak

mother wasn't dead
even if she
had lichenous skin
and I saw her bathing
in chlorine,
make her half woman
half grave
and pretend
to dress herself warm
again

ghostly hands almost choking
mapping all pleasures in me
my eyes weren't sleeping
but I couldn't wake up
from the haunting
(or was I just seeing things?)

don't worry nobody
believed in anything I said,
no one believes in little boys
with cemeteries in their heads.