My mind is not black.
My mind is not black, even
if my words are ashen.
I write about a Cimmerian Fog,
but I am not black.
I have been carved like a pumpkin.
I am dying just like that.
Every day, I sit on a porch
waiting to start the process of rot.
It is slow,
and so I move like honey
wishing to be baked in a hot, hot oven
where warm hands will pull
me out hungrily
and eat me.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 