January 4, 2012
By Anonymous

What do you do
when your muscles emerge
rigid, stale,
my skin dry
like cracked mud.

Riding into an illusion
dirt swirling in the wind around me
the few trailer homes that pass
give me the assertion we are close
to his house
My face turns blood red as I reach his gaze
my murderer,
my friend.
I feel the breeze
is the only thing holding me back,
a deep breath reminds me what I have at home.
Don’t stay here. Not tonight,

My skin, goosebumps all over;
I try to dust them off
feeling thin sand covering my skin
My throat burns warm
I try to leave again
my body is
stern, stagnant.
I’m a slave
to this desert.

I lay on the tattered couch
the cold skin relaxes me to sleep.
I don’t think I ever did wake up.
I remember feeling oppressed to the leather
sinking in like a lost penny deep into the blackness.
I never did regain feeling.
My body stumbles;
the wrinkles that came together in my forehead
made clumps of dirt fall on my cheeks.

Picked up, thrown away.
This man that was once
my friend,
shovels dirt to keep me warm tonight.
My skin is burnt,
flaking off in the wind.
I am warm but inside I know I am cold
and numb.
I watch now from above

The author's comments:
I recently lost my step when he was shot by his best friend, and burned and buried and wasn't found till 6 months later after he was missing. this, in my mind, is coming from him how he might have felt.

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