The cemetery in my chest goes often unvisited.
It's desolate. Only splintered ribs and a rotten heart.
It hangs heavy in the center of my chest,
a weight trying to pull me under.
Ghosts pass through cold and collapsing bones,
like weathering an earthquake
as everything comes crashing down.
Every now and then, a thinly veiled, thinly veined,
lost piece of soul stumbles through.
It brushes by the rotten heart.
Like the skeleton of a tree in the winter,
it shivers, windblown and bare.
The molt cracks around it and flakes away.
In the center is a red, raw, and broken heart.
It's weak. Soft and dark like dirt.
It grows again a hardened skin.
The cemetery goes undisturbed.
The lost piece of soul howls and echoes
through the empty ribcage.
Screaming grief into already brittle bones.