Dead Girls Need Therapy Too
I pity the lips of the dead girls,
unable to attach their lips to
Unable to satisfy the oral fixation.
They come and go as they please.
Their own fluidity filling entire rooms
and buildings and
haunted carousels and when
the space I occupy seems more
like the oxygen around it,
how am I not to wish
to be one of them?
Not a single bruise from this life
The scars of an autopsy unfinished,
performed by the ghost
of the one laying still.
Denial is not always avoidant.
Not always the passive dream held
by the midnight escapist.
No action is more present
than the denial of one’s own death.
So the dead girls stand at the edge
for somebody to finally find us.
Afraid of being seen,
yet still terrified
of being forgotten.
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