Melancholia
xx
The moon is watching me through an open window. She thinks I am the sun, I burn so bright. She watches as my bones melt into sour milk and my brain becomes a dark flame. She is looking when my scars fall off my body, making horrible shadows on the floor.
Later, the mortician breathes in the smell of my little lacerations. They remind him of melancholia. He places them in bruise coloured candles to light them at my funeral. My sadness, a presence in the room.The stench of it will make my mothers heart break, and break, and break.
The mortician is like the moon, for he too can hear death growing inside of me like an unborn child. My darkness is breathing. My rot is teething. The secret will never escape his lips. The thing no one else has ever guessed; that in silence there is sound.
Later, the mortician breathes in the smell of my little lacerations. They remind him of melancholia. He places them in bruise coloured candles to light them at my funeral. My sadness, a presence in the room.The stench of it will make my mothers heart break, and break, and break.
The mortician is like the moon, for he too can hear death growing inside of me like an unborn child. My darkness is breathing. My rot is teething. The secret will never escape his lips. The thing no one else has ever guessed; that in silence there is sound.