I am not a burial box.
I am not ash.
You put me to the wind
and I sink –
and I’m dirt
– and there is no gray left
to leave behind.
Only brown.
Only earth.
Did they not warn you
about the weight
of a woman’s bones?
What we were made to carry?
Did they not tell you
our apologies
are more dense
than any dying star –
and that we were taught
to keep them under
– easy –
to use our lips
like spit –
to make our pride
easier to swallow
by painting them
You are a graveyard.
You hold it all –
and I am less.
A rolling fog the sun cuts through
– a tired rain,
giving up.
No one told me
when I was born
that I would be such
a heavy thing.
No one told me
how hard it would be
– the silence –
my own silence.
You are lucky to be a burial box.
You are lucky to be ash.
They keep feeding on us,
even after death.
They keep feeding on us
when there’s nothing left.


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