I have buried my own bones into the ground,
time after time again,
sometimes my eyes into the sand,
like an ostrich, was told what I saw was not,
told it was not blinding, was not real, was a lie,
was a horoscope that I had read,
now my irises remain streaked,
sometimes my voice is found dug up in the back garden,
a mouse can be found instead of my mouth,
I bury the noise that leaks from it,
I feed it food to cover up the screams,
starvation hits some days,
moths can be seen leaving my ears to muffle the sound of shrills,
my arms no longer weapons to protect me from my own blood,
some years I am found mourning over my own gravestone.