this will be [the death of me]

 
there’s a nagging stench of decay
grief I cling to, entombed within

but grief is meant to be shared, isn’t it?
how many parts of me have died?

hidden inside, I collect memories
dead parts of me, mummified

I give them all a name and take
their power over me away

awake now, I lay to rest
my distress, exhale the grief

and repeat this ritual cleansing
‘til something new blooms in its place

maybe patience, or persistence
previously unknown archaic wisdoms

pretty much anything to replace
this unbearable mental illness

this will be the death of me
of who I am and was

what I will be is yet to be seen, but
I welcome death to catalyze rebirth