by Lizzie Searle
Every day I sport a cloak,
A cloak I wear but do not own.
I fashioned it from want and smoke
And it clothes each frail bone.
And with that cloak of smoke and blight,
I wear a heart pinned to my cuff.
Only to remove at night
That sad and desperate double bluff.
And once my heart is stowed away,
I bow my head towards my chest
To find the cards I keep by day
So very close against my breast.
I lie naked then by night,
Without my cloak and heart and cards.
My bones lie scattered, dead and white
In fine and helpless little shards.
And then I cannot help but see
(With a secret, creeping kind of dread)
The very things that make me, me
Lie crumpled up beside my bed.