an offering on silence

i have seen the depths of despair

and what have i to show for it


this sprinting chest

and traitorous lungs

these hollowed eyes

and hungry hands.

the movement in my chest happens as stasis

a startstop rhythm

on the way to nowhere

what am i?

am i here?

was i here?


at the grave yard

to think

again, to speak

dead and waiting for them to die

i cannot remember which home this is

the movement in my chest

and the sinking of my stomach

mean nothing if there is no

body count

again, i am weak

but there are no bones left to


i am dragged out to sea

and i

am sorry

that the ghouls have conjured our ghosts


were my wounds not open

were they not gaping


and had i not ripped

the skin from my back

to speak

was I not loud enough

and cry and mess

too much blood

help me find the rag

i will clean up after myself


and again,

you are the only shard of

obsidian in the room.

you are drowning.

you are gasping.

Whose voice is sitting on your mind

and demanding your salvation?

she asks of your name

baptises you the trauma in her white tongue

you do not correct her

you never do

you fear

that she has noticed your black

growling back

in the way you speak;

without teeth

and the shadows which have seized your throat.

and you are afraid that she has seen you for all

she conjures in her mind

afraid that one day soon you too have seen

remind your body of the infinity between skin and bones.


And, i speak

i have






curl it bone straight.

And i speak

Again, they

snag against my teeth;

fight their way out of rot, it weeps

the whole thing is a messy affair

all blood and creak

caught between my teeth.

and under my nails

all wail and breathless

caught between my lungs

and choking.

my breath is restless

bones brittle with mudblood.

It feasts under skin,

finds crumbs in the pockets

between my joints

licks the ink from my fingers

and my tongue is knuckling

parting flesh and forming skin

It is wet and heavy.

carries me bone straight.

and curling into fist





which was once soft

but                                            I was once


which was once soft

Again, it weeps –

What of me can be softening bloom

all winter’s opening wombs

Again, it weeps

these spines rattle against my teeth

fall into my mouth to speak

and moving through these restless lungs

Again, this mudblood tumbles out

a messy affair it surely is

all bones and teeth in the way

all chattering and tooth picking

all blood and weep

all stench and clinging to my fingers

Can’t get the smell out

Scrubbing this skin out

Again, it weeps

all wet and heavy



from these bones like spines from teeth

all screaming cheeks for quick release

all           lost           and           wandering

all out and wondering

my, these teeth make quick


and always such troubling mess

and spilling on the sheets

always hollow and lip staining

always wailing slurred and stippling blush

always failing words and thunderous hush

Again, I speak.

but do not breathe)

Again, it weeps.

but do not breathe)

the movement in my chest

happens as


i can no longer see the ghosts in me

again, we are atoms

as we always were

again, we are haunted

by that deathly silence

and here again

that dreaded fog

the site of the wound

is wet and anointed

open and festering

and all this power

yet i am weak

again i speak

i have watched the bone collectors

rob graves many times before.

i have written this many times before

always too bloody and

mistaking the rattling bones for night terrors.

always speaking silent through the

spines in my teeth

silent as the bodies disappeared

until i was myself the ritual


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