Woman of Bones

I am a woman. A woman of bones.
I do not walk but rattle, I do not sing but spit turbulent moans of regret,
fragmented in the memory.
For once upon a time, this woman created life now this woman,
only creates death. I step heavy with this burden, crunching flat,
all sound of my existence~ dissociated from the luxury of psychology.
I live in the invisible where you will never see me but hear only my skeleton howl.
Percussed in winds that puff smouldering pyres of lost primal woman cries.
I walk away from life at home amongst beds of the dead, where purple roses lay still, shadowed in forgotten ceremonies,
ashes to ashes: dust to dust:
I dig deep. Sniffing infertile soil. Desperate is my tired womb; I cannot remember foetal beats as I bleed vacant blood.
I am searching for nothing. Nothing of matter.
I find solace and comfort in depression. Where woebegone scripts
are embedded in calcifying scratches along my sciatic nerveless spine.
The beginning was good – The middle was fine – But the end was not.
I’ll forever hunt in whispering graves. I deserve no more than to capture
all women’s melancholia. There, I will find my treasure.
I’ll sew in congealed blood knots, pieces of their dead skin that no longer seek to throb. I’ll use these stinking parchments to pattern an old dress embroidered with shards of their silently aching jaws.
Bejewelled with an amulet of woman’s broken teeth.
I will dance tantric amongst the unheard chattering souls
that sing to all women who are dead enough inside this life to hear
the beautiful songs of the deceased.
For I am tribal – A grim warrior – A bone collector.
My carcass must be covered in their decay. My ears must never hear again the rhythm of a tomorrow. I have chosen my path: this way, where the sun does not shine. Where nothing grows but disease.
All I deserve is to crumble through the rest of time. Here in the darkness,
where the clock ticks backwards. I will haunt cloaked in the morbid,
clanking in the shadows, suffering this passive burden. I’ll wait dressed in an ugly, defiant remorse.
Hear me in the past tense – Sense my most palpable stench – as laments rise from my rotten breath.
Listen as I decompose my mortal song.
Cruel mother of mothers come back from the stone let me suckle your bitter endings again. Hold tight these bones deep within your suffocating breasts.
For this is my execution – My pain – My crowning lullaby of thorns.
Only this I care to remember.
Tara Fleur 28.02.2016