I wear a coward's red
badges along the length
of my left arm, knowing
you can hide anything
if your sleeves are
long enough, if you've
got the will to look
everyone in the eye
and pretend to be fine.
To deny that every night
you shovel the dirt
of your grave into your
mouth with a spoon is
a thing requiring skill,
and I do it with flair,
with a smile on my face.
I do it because I have
never learned how to do
anything else. Death is
a cold, black comfort that
I fumble my way towards.

02/20/2004

Author's Note: Another writing.com slam poem. This time the topic was having a secret or secret life.

Posted on 02/21/2004
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair