flesh prison

This flesh prison -

the slope of my skin,

so, so much skin,

pale, markedly cool,

and much too soft,

too soft for this world.

I’m stuck in this flesh prison

for crimes I didn’t commit

and I’ll be away for life.

There would be a contentment

in solitary confinement;

there wouldn’t be the voice

inside my head yelling,

over and over again,

everything I’ve worked to push down.

I’m too weak to bury it.

The thoughts rise to the surface like bile.

The only thing left to do is shovel it all aside

until I can lay six feet under, finally at rest,

because you can’t tuck yourself in at night

with the sheet hanging from the rafter.