the casket

Subha N. Khan

My bed is a casket. I’m convinced this is true.

The suffocation of choices weighs me down

I’m sure I am buried six feet underground

But I create the isolation I’m trapped in. There's no escape. I’m ripped through

I'm floating. I'm not here. I don't exist. 

Enough. I’m alive, I’m bound

To this flesh still.The failure, the restlessness it must be because of the deceit we feed ourselves, it has to be

And so now my friend asks if I was okay  

Of course I have a perfectly good casket