closed curtains

the flowers' petals sun-dried and wind-bled,
youth and colored cheeks long since shed,
their faces turn towards the cold earth.
my nails wet with red in the old hearth.

the grass whipped dry by mother earth,
soft dying breath whispered into dirt.
moaning as hands pull off my shirt,
i sell myself for warm sheets and cold feet.

my dad's eyes i no longer can meet,
i'm winter with closed hands and old dreams,
a sister with bruised hands and broken things,
a twister running out of steam.

a china doll pushed from the shelf,
cracked face shining in the hell,
icicles deadened by the bell.
god couldn't hear after darkness fell.

i see death in the eye of needle and vein of thread,
in youth and loneliness,
cold fingers and bated breath.
she's empty cupboard legs and stale bread,
she's empty classroom thoughts and a stump for a head,
she's empty compliment kids and brain dead.

her lips turn out the light,
the candle's wick blackened and shy.
she slits her wrists, the blood gone dry.
her eyes forever see the night.

look, these are my knees,
crease after crease meeting grease after geese.
listen, these are my pleas,
calling out to the hes and shes.
close your hands around the keys,
close the sands beneath the seas.

slept-in sheets and a hospital bed,
clean white sheets and open casket dread.
no one's eaten, cold eyes in their head.
no one's eaten, blood running red.
no one's eaten since i'm dead.