There is a little black raven
that lives inside my chest
and he does what scavengers
are known for doing best;
he sits perched behind my ribs
eating my held-in words
picking over wormy carcasses
of sentences I wish you heard.
I know I should not feed him
getting quieter as he gets stronger
and he is getting restless
he won’t stay still much longer.
I’m afraid of my own silence
of the words that once were mine
lest the raven burst from my flesh
trailing bloody syllables and intestine.
And should the raven fly away
and I lay in the shadow of death
I will regret the words left unsaid
down to my last breath.



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