skeletons in your closet.

death by a thousand paper cuts

poets write poetry 

about cutting the dark dripping underbelly of the

mind

people

moments

hearts

apart.

no one has the audacity to cut open 

the words to stickyto say outloud sticktoyou glue the

truthtogether as your skin turnsintopaper

the poet turned to Muse.

how many hollow versions of yourself did you have to 

devour 

to satiate yourself into a whole again 

the mistress he could never catch to devour 

for she is hungry & eats alone.

only to throw up each carved piece

of the heartbeat leftovers you left our

only to realize

you can keep more than one skeleton in your body.