Member-only story
The gathering parts of one whole
I can’t kill myself today, my clothes are dirty
and I can’t expect my family to wash them.
People die many deaths before the furnace
farms their burning flesh cold into ash.
I died today.
Today, I died again.
I did.
A warm, brittle death
in the fateful arms of my starred destiny.
We go back home,
Weirdly hole
worms fill ours, now whole.
Parts that remain still are not
what they should be, or once were
But we are happy to be home.
Nonetheless. In spite of. Because not all of us
find a way out of the changing
mystical, masked and mistiful maze.
Pillows do not catch much sleep anymore
Suitcases that cannot zip up all of us up, all the
baggage, overflowing and lanky luggage.
Lucid legs from circling the ends of hope.
— — a poem by nublaccsoul x new-black-soul
