Dirge

I am all the voices
In my head
And none of them

A cacophony of silence
So deafening my ears bleed
My blood proof
Of both life and death
I am a poet
A grave robber
A necromancer

Digging deep into the pain
And trauma within the tomb
I have become
My words marionette strings
Making buried bones dance
Call me serial killer

First victim age 10
Too weak to handle
The jeering of fellow students
Her life mine
Her death a necessary evil
But quick
So she wouldn't suffer

2nd victim age 17
Angst ridden teen
Her depression passed off as phase
Dressing itself as Goth
Her death a fulfillment of her embracing
The darkness within
While avoiding the physical pain
She feared

3rd victim age 20 - rape
Next 21, 26, 32, 40
You may think me monster
But I am not

I am a graveyard of shallow plots
And issues not buried deep enough
Resurrect themselves
Requiring their death to be repeated
Over and over

Did you know
You can bury alive things
I have felt the weight of dirt
On face and limbs
Tasted earth between screams
Too muffled to be heard

Did you know alive things
Buried become zombie
A defense mechanism
To the rot which begs to devour

What do you do
When the bodies you've buried
Are your own
When the murderer
Who took your life
Stares back at you
In the mirror

How do you answer your reflection
When it asks
Who am I
When the answer eludes you
And you are not sure
If you are serial killer
Or zombie resurrected

A version of yourself
Waiting to be killed
Waiting for another you
To take your place

Remembered only in the lines of a new piece
And the snaps of an audience
Completely unaware of this cycle
Of life and death being carried out
Right in front of them