Head Like a Hole

a poem

There was a girl, stabbed to death on these blank steps, wrapped in burlap that didn’t stretch, bled through, bled through and stained the cement that dark paint smear of pain and death.

We walk over it, walk on it like we didn’t swear we wouldn’t forget. The flakes, chipped away where the knife couldn’t bend.

Somewhere someone loved her,
Someone somewhere…