I'm nothing but a tiny serpent
Biting its own tail, designed for it,
Teeth sinking deep into a familiar taste
I wish I could spit out of my mouth
My throat grasps itself in desperation
A freezing scream too quiet to wake up
From its torturous slumber
Too aware of itself to even move a finger
Towards the blazing sun my mouth hides so diligently
My shattered spine becomes one with the ground
My voice a memoir from a lost chronology
My teeth sting my every muscle
Falling down my throat, a bottomless pit
Flowers try to bloom and thrive
In the poisoned fourth month of the year
Their stems are up, their petals fallen
Only rotten remains making up for a year's damage
Yet the birds still sing
They still cry their hopeful deeds
Screeches trying to make up for my own
Too shallow and bright to succeed
Here they are, flying in circles above me
A crooked moving shadow over my dead body
Their weeping matches the nightingale
But their vessels belong to the vultures
And these chains, a gift from the clouded heavens,
Wrapped firmly around my wrists,
Are the crosses I bear every day
And carry towards a place where I can free myself from them
From the scales that cover them,
Dry and dull and drenched in blood,
As if they were a secret worth keeping
Spring always bites me back
Holding a thousand words in my regard
Burning and picking up the ashes beside the river
Putting me back together after tearing me to pieces
I tear my dead skin apart in April
As I sharpen my tongue again.