pig stye

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a-tisket, a-tasket,
stuck in here in my own casket—
not too short, not all that high—
and yet I can’t seem to cry.

oh my?—what was said?—die?!
why not mask it with this lie:
i was born with wings—can fly—
this coffin…um…bed and I.

let the oldest of scabs lie
or scars will appear if you try
to pick them—don’t dare ask why.

can anyone see inside my
tortured, emotion-stained pig stye?

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
 
Tittu