My Body is a Mausoleum

my mother once told me it was hard to know me. i seal my thoughts into tombs, and do not mark their edges. she says my body has become a mausoleum. this is where good things go to die, my veins like catacombs under Paris. my mother once said i was hard to love. i keep my hurt close to my heart, where it bleeds out into rotten skin. my mouth is an exit wound. you can never heal with a knife still in your back. i have stitched up my chest, planted flowers in my mind. all that was is still there, but i have sown flowers in these fields. i will mourn at these graves until i have stopped digging them.