My lover is a taxidermist:
proficient in the art
of keeping alive something
that has long since died.
I am kept like a pet,
on display to show the neighbors
what a dead girl saved
looks like in real life.
My skin is tight and tanned
to trap me in perpetual youth.
He replaced my heart
with cotton and sutures
so that it never has the chance to change.
He fixes glass eyes in my hollow skull
so that I do not go to sleep but how
can I be awake when the tide of my blood
no longer rushes in my ears and my ribs
only reverberate with the echo
of a used to be voice.
Mounted on the living room wall,
I hold my breath,
waiting for a life
that has withered and flaked
and joined the dust moats
suspended in canned lights.
I think he thinks he saved me
because at least I’m still here.
The alcohol masks the smell of death
so guests won’t know
I’m just stuffed
with insomnia and sawdust.
