Make me a martyr.
You can build settlements on my bones,
and I’ll fit in the folds of your scalp
for you to tuck away whenever you need to glide through your
I won’t be there.
You can mummify our memories,
crystallize every tender heart I gave you,
wrap up every blueberry I let erupt all over each of your fears
Because I do not exist.
Neither does my hairy brain,
nor my coughed-up lips.
If you glorify heartbreak because you think it makes you romantic, you’ve never been depressed.
I learned that the moment the pit in my chest was born.
The day the cave in my stomach got tangled with the wells in my eyes.
The day the hot in-linings of my skin became an uncomfortable jacket I wish I could shed.
The day my body’s cage began to chatter.
The night I had my first foreign sleep.
Do you want me to swallow it?
I’m easier as your nostalgia.
I’m light, delicious.
I’m a drifted story without fault.
To you I’m digestible.
But to me, I measure all horrors against you.
The author of this piece has requested to remain anonymous.