by Ben Ramakrishnan
i lay the fallen remnants of my flesh on the corinthian columns
just like you laid me to dry, a windswept french exit on the balcony i still
peel the exocarp of fruit in that superstitious way you taught me like a
prayer because everything was religion to you–everything, except me
i remember your body embalmed in myrrh and the balsamic smell of the mortuary
the nothingness i felt when i saw the nothingness in your eyes
i said it smelled like the salad you’d make when you said i should stop eating
and mom said it smelled like the grace of jesus
i left the darkness from which you birthed me and have become a ravenous creature
eating at my own insides and carving epitaphs into my skin
life sucked out of the folds of my eyes and my skin greying like your bergamot tea
sometimes i think this must be hell–perhaps i was the one who died
i thought when you were gone, then it would finally be enough
contorting myself into the entrails of my intestines
making myself smaller, smaller until i was innards and nothing at all
to earth i have returned but what earth can make four walls a home?
to earth i have returned but what earth can mend a shattered soul
Ben Ramakrishnan is a high school student who loves music, theater, and literature. When he isn't holed up writing poetry in his bedroom, he can be found sipping iced coffee, baking up a storm, or performing onstage. He is also the founder and editor-in-chief of Vellichor Literary.