appropriately appalling

i
the flies are in the food, again.
festering, feeding- because i sewed
shut my lips when you warned me
they were a gaping wound.

silence is the best kind of infection;
you can't know what's kept inside

ii
i carry little girl dreams
of dying and coming back
diseased, depraved, an atrocity;
at least then I'd be something
worth writing home about

i deserve more than what
i am- i am selfish and
greedy, but not strong
enough
to steal a life worth living

(look at me now, mom
i'm growing into the
ugly thoughts i birthed.
i think this is what it must feel like
to finally follow through)

iii
there are things you never say:
no one ever wants to
face their mortality
head-on.
i will die and i will bring
my rotting mind with me;

the sun will rise again, brightly,
a little less burdened

the worst eulogy, it seems,
is a finger pointed towards
a world unwelcoming:
(look at me now, mom
i'm something worth writing
home about, i finally
followed through)

iv
there's a skeleton's breath
on the back of my neck,
a reminder I was born
wrong human

the flies are in the food, again
i think i'm going home