Beautiful Horrible ThingsIcarus death black lives matter grief
I don’t think death is as beautiful as the poets say. Yes,
there’s something pretty about dead roses and rotten fruit, mice
skulls and bones, but I’m reminded of how easily skulls can split, or
how easily bones could break, and in my heart, there’s another funeral
and it’s raining. My head is rushing to meet the frozen ground, but
I should be prepared for it. It’s nearly taking me three separate times,
and every time I look in the mirror I recognize myself a little less.
What can I do? Is it worthwhile digging another grave?
Do the birds stop singing? I cannot afford to put my life on halt.
I fear if I stop, I will never be able to start again. What can I do?
Nowhere is safe. The streets of America have become killing fields.
You take a risk every time you step outside. You take a risk. You pray.
They said they remember. They have better things to forget.
You die. You die again.
I push back getting my license another year. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.