I am reluctant to tell you about my dying days. The intermittent decaying; the inside red is malodorous. The smell invites confusion. I can’t decide whether I am staying or not. The rebirth between each death. The stubborn revivals for existing sake. They can’t even feast on me if they tried. Inside my carcass is a heavy womb. Water breaks and i am my own mother. The nostril finds air, again. When alarms go coffin digging; “Didn’t you hear? It is groundhogs day. We go again.” Coming back to pacify you and them. Haunting all of us, smiling. Shoving dead bodies in jack-in-the-box Animating piles of unwashed clothes from the chair in the corner. The “let me show face quickly” turmoil, Turnaround, tap dancing aliveness when i am bare bones. A brittle pregnant bitch snarling at the gate, let me out so I can crawl down the street and relieve us of here in private. The guilt of forced resurrection, it wasn’t time yet. All of us, inside the red, are awakening to realities we don’t want to accept. So we sleep and wait to not return. Awakening is brutal. Thrust alive with all our limbs intact. It is painful to be born again.