Hang me, drain me,
cut and bleed me,
leave me in the wind to dry
and grow as hollow
as the apologies
you’ll decorate me with,
later,
leave me as nothing
but bones, nothing
but a rattle and rush,
nothing but
a dried up bag
of sticks and wistful thinking —
it will be easier
for at least one of us,
this way.
Easier
