I WON’T TELL YOU THIS
Nia Broomhall
I am terrified of some soft afterlife
that keeps enough of me, faintly
for something faint and soft to filter through
to you, a fucking feather maybe
that keeps enough of me, faintly
to show I’m something there and lost
to you, a fucking feather maybe,
some fucking sense or shadowflake of me
to show I’m something there and lost,
and you will search for some shape of me
some fucking sense or shadowflake of me
in a heaven I want no share of,
and you will search for some shape of me
where I am fixed in rose light, waiting
in a heaven I want no share of
in the horror of knowing for sure
where I am, fixed in rose light, waiting
for something faint and soft to filter through
in the horror of knowing for sure
I am terrified of some soft afterlife.