Morning After

By Kaitlyn Sun

Anticipation,

the viscous spell that draped the air 

and glued together the fractured days –

an arbitrary seven –

into the semblance of a casket

where inside I die in many ways 

except for actual death,

cracks at the golden hour

when the walls are licked with gold. 

Death curls like a dog,

crawling inside my pores to dig, dig

and empty me out

as he licks a sunset between my legs

and I whimper like a bitch,

and he, not knowing what it is about,

thinks that I have been filled up

so, he takes his fill

and again, I am alone with the dog. 

Alone,

after the extinguished sighs and breath

my hollow bones are laid to rest

on the shores of a restless sleep

where, in the end, I always swim back,

and grief is an unwelcome guest

who keeps me company in the grey light

when I am left mourning, after

the morning after.

Kaitlyn Sun is a Chinese-Australian poet who spends too much time in the void. One day, she shared her words—and found a bit of light. Find her at @sad.magical.girl on Instagram.