You tell us nothing scares you more than death.
You lie awake at night, after ending your prayers
At the meaningless body,
As some bodies are rendered no more than a ceiling to contemplate
As you tremble. As you pulsate with a terrible honesty.
That we must be known before we are loved.
That no one is a mystery, that everyone has history
Chiseled into them, and you cannot escape that fear.
That unknowable thing, that nothingness that hides just under our fingernails,
La petite morte, like a river from your stomach,
And you are finished, and everything feels wrong
As you clean up the mess you’ve made.
The morning after death,
You stay in bed until 10:30.
The sun peers at you from a high prison window
And exposes your scars for the whole damn city to see
And you are known. But you are not loved.