Zombie

They don’t tell you how much easier it is to be undead.

That loving is hard. Living.

Your jaw won’t be in one piece, your eyes will strain to see

and your bloody limbs will drag behind with every sigh.

They don’t tell you that 

just when you think every rotted shred is back in place,

just when you think you feel the end

the gauzy threads keeping you together,

careful stitches of sweat and tears,

will pull and catch and break.

And you won’t notice until it’s almost too late.

You have to keep a first aid kit, 

bandaids and glue. 

And put pieces together 

until they look almost like you.