and there it is, shrapnel

i wish i could stop
talking about it
letting it out
[like skeletons you find in the closet]

i thought it would be better,
if i could,
once upon a time,
a time where i really couldn't
now i can't stop

maybe if i could hold it inside,
trap it inside,
it would rot and fester
enough for it to be
as dead as you are

but i keep exploding and there it is, shrapnel.

ghosts & ghosts & ghosts;

it's like a trail of corpses, i'm tired of the smell.

you're dead
but this isn't
i often wish i could be

you're dead but
this still won't leave me be
it never will
nothing ever changes
[even as everything does]

i still write poetry about this
ghosts never stay where they belong,
in the past, six feet under

i wish i could be at peace
please stop haunting me