My best friends and I live
In museums.
They never cease
To terrify,
To embolden,
To strike true.
We are all painted black with pain,
Thick layers of dried blood spilling out from frames.
When I am here I am home.
I float and fall
Amidst the strange beauty,
Amidst the limitless horror,
Amidst the sky and the skin of the dead,
Taut against the wooden rack—
Some of them give up and speak their secrets;
Some of us give up and gasp and moan.
