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I am a catacomb of dead hearts 

with silence inside coffins 

that birds cannot even sing. 

The drum roll descends,

red wires catching every wind,

and the rush of ashes falling 

from the burning spot 

on a coal sky,

all a symphony for

another death,

another life, 

another spirit.

P

I am afraid

I am afraid of grown-men.

I am sometimes afraid of my own father and how he is a grown-man. I am almost quiet whenever they speak of him… so casually. And my brain itches to tell. My mouth tries to form the words, but fear cripples my tongue and breaks the ant-size resolve I may have formed during the few moments we talk about him.

His face forms in my mind and mocks me as the secret could not leave the valleys of my teeth. My eyes dry themselves out, preferring to drown when I least expect it. My body pities me. It crumples and hugs itself until the walls climb and shut me in from those touches and sounds he made, satisfied with the frozen frame of someone young and naive.

I rock back and forth.

 

“Don’t tell them. They won’t understand.”

 

“It’s all in your head.”

 

“It’s nothing. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”

P