My Wooden Home

The sun had just begun to melt away the teary eyes Still coated with a fresh layer of salt My piano stood as witness to my mummification Pleading to sing the pages of my diary The fresh scent of oils seeped into my skin, gnawing at my still reflection. The peeking neighbors' curious eyes were too busy that Monday morning To see through my open shades. I stood in the midst of my memoirs and final notes, Holding bottles of bittersweet candies (that once left my niece heaving on my bedroom floor) One bottle for my flattened tone, two more for my quivering hands; since, apathy, at my state, seemed the better option. I thought of my mother's face Eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed Arms stiff with stubbornness, as she found my wrangled body My father holding my limp bones in his arms smiling down at his "little girl" I thought of the moonlit stones, Where my friends dressed in black veils and stood sheepishly in the corners Faces downcast, fingers pointed at one another. Those who never knew me selfishly conceived a history shared with splashed of mascara While I lay in my new wooden home, Dressed in a Russian school-girl skirt, neatly brushed pigtails, a corset to hide my folds, and words I'd never have a chance to say.