I keep dreaming of death
as a person who will not
be refused. He or she or it
will stay there because that’s
what death does, and it’s
a person, any type of murderer
who puts stitches over mouths, 
I never thought I would
be able to see
a graveyard in the catacombs of
our bunk bed, made in
this house when we first
moved in, yet I can smell
the lemon spray the serial
killer's supposed to have
doused his cupboard with
to make sure no one smelled what
he kept
in there, I wondered sorely
what it would be like
to feel nothing at the sight
of human rot, not full of
electric wires that won’t
turn on, they’re all on fire
I never thought I would
be able to see
a museum display, a walled
glass case in the roof
of my bottom bunk, myself
the ancient artifact
boxed in, in fact 
sometimes I wake up thinking
it a tomb, go to sleep knowing
it might be, if I ever wake up
I won’t recognize death, because
it always came as a visitor
a guest.