maybe i know there’s a raven in my skull 

maybe i bring it sacrifices anyway: 

a knife, stained glass, a sign, the aftermath. 

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maybe i know there’s a raven in my skull 

but it doesn’t know it’s there 

pulling teeth and screaming its grief 

until the fire turns its head from everything once feared. 

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(the raven sees the smoke but not itself burning. 

the raven sees itself only when reflected in the fire.) 

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maybe the raven wants to kill me 

maybe this time i’ll let it 

it’s been so long since anyone looked in my eyes when i wasn’t smiling 

i’ve almost forgotten my eyes can close.

 

(the part of me that fell asleep on a december afternoon is getting worried. no one is joining it and the bed isn’t quiet enough to keep the sounds of laughter out. the sounds of forgetting out. forgetting has a sound, you see? forgetting sounds like a heartbeat, like blood pumping like ‘normal’. being awake is so easy except when it isn’t.) 

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maybe sleeping hands can’t draw pictures of what the days have done to me. but i’ve brought the raven enough ink that it can. 

 

maybe i know there’s a raven in my skull. 

maybe i want to sit with it.