My mother's womb was a sarcophagus.
This is the afterlife.
Every star above me is a pinprick
in the black cloth draped over my head,
a beautiful, elaborate farce.
My lungs don't work anymore,
but they don't need to.
My blood is as carbonated as cherry cola,
tastes just as bitter and sweet.
But this poetry preserves my body,
stitches the wounds with words.
It will give reason to my improbable existence.
The oxygen I can't breathe will turn my skin into gold.

11/03/2015

Author's Note: https://i.imgur.com/RZ3tn.jpg

Posted on 11/03/2015
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