Make Me a Martyr

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

robotic
acoustic
monday.

 

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. 

One Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s