Even the dead tell stories—

Flesh peeled back from the bone,

Blood that burns the roof of my mouth

And sizzles through all seven circles of Hell.

Oblivion did not release me as I thought it would.

My will, being a sharp-edged machete,

Gashes vines so I can find my way back to the breadcrumbs

But I stopped to rest my aching feet

And laid down in green pastures,

Extending my neck on the chopping block

For an axe-wielding madman to chop me into daisies.

He sprinkled me in the dirt upon your grave

And my tears fell like fresh dew

On a spring morning

And I’m still mourning—

I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.