my hands do not shake this time,
firm grip on the shovel and
graveyard dirt on my boots,
sweat stained leather jacket collar
but i forget the thick gloves,
like i forget the bandana,
and that dirt clogs my lungs
as blood drip drip drips from
the torn skin of my palms
and i’m still not sure if
all this digging,
and digging,
and digging,
is to unearth or to bury
haunted by the ghost of the
girl i used to know,
the girl i used to be
breath comes out harsh,
a dancing ghost amongst the pines,
and i am rot waiting to happen,
washed in gold by the sunrise
i am the choke-chain,
and the tender hand,
the dog that bites the hand
that both beat me and loved me,
and i am rot waiting to happen
and i lived through who i was
to become who i am,
but sometimes even that looks like
asking myself what harm just one
more time could do, and remembering
those six years, where i started as a boy,
and stopped as a man
and i am a sinner,
with this shovel in my bleeding hands,
not quite stigmata, though the stained glass
in the skin of my knees begs to differ
and i am a sinner,
because i lived,
because i am both the haunted,
and the haunter,
the girl that grew into a man
and if we’re going to sin,
then let us sin wholly,
then let us sin holy