violent truth (part i)

it's hard to write when the world is grey.
last night, passion undulated in me
like the tempest only a few hours northeast.
i want to live in the sea.
violent waves whipping around me
and turbulent winds making me deaf.
i want to fall to the bottom of the ocean
and collect old bones wrapped
in diamonds that won't decompose.
i am most at home in the middle of bones.
i walk through the collected mound and
tremble with trepidation.
and my passion gets the best of me.
YOU ARE NOT DEAD YET.
your name is not forgotten,
it is not destroyed,
you are not the whore
to be left on the corner of the street
in the middle of january
shivering in the first snow storm.
the truth is violent
it tears apart everything that I am comfortable
believing. but, death is not life.
call me the bone collector.
call me the resurrector.
call me a daughter
who brings flowers to forgotten sisters and sons.