will you find my bones in the dirt?

when the sun goes down,

the wind stills 

and I hold dirt in my hands 

and go over the evening 

as dusk slides into dawn. 

there is something in my heart 

that feels like I am a simmering boil

soon to scream from the heat. 

When I ask myself what I need,

like a good student of psychology 

and grief-washed time, 

I find answers in absolution

for even the thought 

of wanting you. 

sometimes I don't believe what they say 

when they say,

"the thing that scares you the most 

is the thing that has already happened." 

I am buried and bludgeoned 

and sore. 

But I am not sorry.