The night my brother ran away,

he became a thief.

Coroner, to the pieces of our family.

“You know your brother‘s gay,” she said.

 

First,

he stole my lungs.

Sucked cells dry of questions.“What?”, of air.

Only to swallow: “Where is he?” in silence.

Gone.

No goodbye. 

 

Next, 

he took dad’s eyes.

Pinched coarse hands, and dug fingers straight through sockets.

Left

black holes and bloody fingerprints.

When he smiles, the skin still crinkles at the corners, but now light never passes its rims.

Two Dying Stars spacing out into ...

Emptiness…

 

Mom refuses to say boyFRIEND!

That morning,

he stole her hands.

In their place, pale vases strangling a bouquet of damp tissues hung

limp.

Thickly scent of “how long?”

“Months,” she said.

 

The morning after  my brother ran away,

he stole my voice.

Took common kitchen knife, the very one he taught me to cook with.

Sloppy cuts to chord, arm shoved halfway down my throat, blocking any chance of protest.

Left them

damaged. Useless.

 

To tell him, I didn‘t give a Fuck.

Though,

he didn’t ask.

So when I moaned my chest hollow, water antiseptic to seething tears, Mom didn’t hear.

Just like I ... didn’t hear

the whispering.

 

But,

she couldn't.

He stole her ears.

Gently severed and placed them at the highest point, locked tight the pantry.

Maybe that's why she feeds on his excuses, reasons why he can’t be bothered to visit.

Bring .Back. Home.


 

From Home you stole the most. Splayed corpse head to toe and lifted heart from cavity.

Aroused a frankenstein body into action to hide behind, lie beside.

Only,

the smell of death gave you away.

The problem was you’d been stealing from us for years,  

and the pieces were too connected to break apart.

A rotting family, even pieces of it, can only last so long.

You were seen,

and, unfortunately, Dad still had his voice;

you stole the chords off the wrong person.

And the blind tongue

of a conservative christian father trills

ominous.


 

Now we lay an imperfect, yet still loving, anatomy. Your family.

Limbs entangled  ‘round each other,  our fiv—four mangled bodies, we dream.

I. Dream.

Of the day my brother ran away, and  left me.


 

                                                 Never asking if I wanted to come ...

Autopsy of a Family: Results inconclusive

 

Elysia Magdalena

Elysia Magdalena is an openly introverted closet poet who downs far too many black coffees, and succumbs to daydreams on the regular. She prefers pen names, base-ball caps and large rimmed glasses to hide behind and is currently pursuing an obscenely large book collection.
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