who wants a blank tombstone anyway
white page
condemned
by the weight of black ink
as you scribble faster, while you still
remember; before you change
a memoir of who you were yesterday, a record containing every inflection of your mind,
for what will you be in the end if you never remember what you were? we are all
stone anyway
marked by the words we ourselves write, etched according to how many times we have split open
cracked
so this white page becomes more than words - for each letter has reached out and made itself a home in my spilt blood
and these dripping thoughts become more than pretty sounds and sweet smells
they are my
scribbles, like a doctors prescription
diction, like the mouth of a judge, engraved on to my very surface
MY cure
MY incriminating evidence
MY proof
that i have thought & felt & hurt
my cracks, my proof
for that when i am dead, when i am old, when i am me tomorrow
both heaven and i will know,
that my stone has bled