She is the walking dead. No matter who
she was before, you must burn her with flame
because the dead can never be the same
as they were once. And she will make you, too,

a thing that rots and staggers. Take a blade
and cut her head off. And ignore her moan.
She let them bite her. Left you all alone.
What sort of love was it that she displayed

by dying? Rotting? Soon her lovely face
will fall away; and soon her matted hair
will drop in clumps. You never knew despair
before you saw her die and rise. No trace

of her is left in it. And through your head
this thought runs– though I live, I too am dead.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s