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.
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