We Don't Use That Name Around Here Anymore

I’m pressure on the soft spot of the skull. A procession in the winter, a heart full of failure.

Your very own burial.

Once we prayed for Death, we often begged for silence.

Now I only wish to be clean of this grief.

Your very own burial, let there be shame.

Affordably priced. Four sided or six?

I swear I’ve set us back. Your very own burial.

I’m the water that we swim in, flailing and panicked.

Your very own burial.

Let there be shame.