Trust me–don’t even look at
the place where you used to grow.
You’ll only make yourself sad.
Would you like me to distract you
with another chorus of Dem bones,
dem bones, dem dry bones? Or
The worms crawl in, the worms
crawl out? We don’t know if it will be
worms for you, or a raccoon,
maybe a squirrel. I’m sorry I don’t
know a good song about your innards
being eaten. I’m sorry there’s not much
left to talk about. Have I told you that
sometimes I think I’m only pretend,
never had any flesh at all? Sometimes,
I remember the sounds of a factory.
Hey, do we even know for sure
that you grew on that vine? Maybe
you can’t be eaten, after all. Maybe
you’ll get packed away in the basement,
like me. My box is called Halloween Stuff.
Maybe you’ll spend winter, spring, summer
with me inside Halloween Stuff. It all depends
on this: I think I’m made of plastic. Are you?
For NaPoWriMo, Day 27.