All of them laughing

i only write about the dead. 

the dead are all i write about 

because i cannot get over those 

cold still hands. 

i cannot get over those 

lonely sounds.

i cannot, just cannot 

get over them. 

Hours, months pass 

and graves close up;

new things grow on top; 

a hard scab forms that only 

hurts if you move

the wrong way. 

best not stress that scab or else 

it bursts with hard new pain. 

i only write about the dead because 

i cannot get over them, 

i write to rip their fingers from my heart, 

to scrub their dander 

from my skin. 

the suffocating dead; i see their faces, 

all of them laughing. 

all of them content, 

all of them tired of me, 

my endless mourning.