Dead Girls Need Therapy Too

Cari Moll

I pity the lips of the dead girls,

unable to attach their lips to

material desperation.

Unable to satisfy the oral fixation.

They come and go as they please.

Their own fluidity filling entire rooms

and buildings and

haunted carousels and when

the space I occupy seems more

like the oxygen around it,

how am I not to wish

to be one of them?

Not a single bruise from this life

has disappeared.

The scars of an autopsy unfinished,

performed by the ghost

of the one laying still.

Denial is not always avoidant.

Not always the passive dream held

by the midnight escapist.

No action is more present

than the denial of one’s own death.

So the dead girls stand at the edge

just waiting

for somebody to finally find us.

Afraid of being seen,

yet still terrified

of being forgotten.

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