The cold was never a problem
since my blood is solid.
I always preferred the loneliness
of smeared makeup on the pillows
to the coupled weight of bodies in the morning.
My bones were always steel
in spite of awkward fingers on willing fists.
When your grandchildren dig me up
years from now, they
wont find a trace of rot or decay
theyll see the rage in my wide-open eyes.
Theyll hear my last words,
muffled in my mouth by the dirt.
Ill spit them out to them like I did
the day you tied me up and buried me alive:
Give me daughters.















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