Not mine.

Wallowing in grief that isn't mine.

I pick handfuls of diamonds and mud up, to feel them slide through my hair.

Someone else's tears and sorrow adorn my cloak and crown.

Heroes don't take mud-baths.

It drips, draining me of sense and absolving me of all my sins.

Muck that fills my lungs and falls from the corners of my mouth, 

Like blood.

Clotted blood, and this smell of iron and thick death.

I pick my teeth with its ribs.

Tiny sticks to bury, nothing more.

I grieve things that aren't mine to grieve.

I'll vomit up someone else's tragedy, hang it loosely from the rafters

Like some macrame lace.  

Puke lace.

If I hold it all in my hands again, clotted mud and sticks

If I grind it in my matted hair

Wipe it through my stinging eyes, and press it in my fragile skin, 

Will it go away, then?

Will the smell go away?

I want to snip my skin into ribbons.

I want the sky to breathe me in, 

My house should be wider than the desert...  This isn't mine.

This isn't mine.