I am here, and here, and here. I am shadows imprinted on asbestos walls and old lace. I have died in this room in the ribcage of acrid men, writhing among their proscenium cavities, paying broken final mirth to their wicked hips that tower and loop back as both broken bone and birth. I hear desperate songs of dripping sorrow, my feet grow into stones, and I am left counting drops of marrow until I am counted by and becoming bone. this is not my home.
I am a raven plucked crimson clean. My wingbeats splatter alabaster walls with iron falls, until bleeding ivory sings, until my bleating caws sink in seas of blood and marrow, and I am pinned by leaden wings. Here amongst this graveyard, I am clean.
Tired fingertips turn to chalk and soon I am a column of bone, dripping, drop, by drop. Each piercing plop singing, home. Home, please take me home.
Please, I am so scared to always be. Let me become.