Study of Regrets
Lid closed, I’m stuck in an urn
It’s not a place I’d like to call home
It’s not that I call to the grave
(*ring ring* hello?)
It’s more like the grave calls to me
We are all so complicated, and then we die
My end on my mind
Demento mori
Maybe it’s the repeating 10.10 wins report
About two separate hit and runs in Brooklyn
Maybe it’s the aftershock of being stopped in my tracks by the corpse of a little mouse at my door’s threshold
Could be I’m mourning the home my grandparents owned since 1977 that was sold and is slated to be razed
Childhood memories discarded amongst childhood photos
I believe my soul is in each photo
Someone put a thumb tack through my 9-year-old head on the bulletin board
And I haven’t been well since