Joyce VincentA woman who sat dead in her home with the TV and heater running for three years until her corpse was found.
Nobody makes this choice
No Body
Wakes up in the morning
Drenched in Epiphany sweat and
Declares themselves
Inconsequential
Insubstantial
Invisible
These things take time
Like erosion or
Certain forms of dementia
The topsoil gets lost in the runoff
Pieces of soul stuff syphoned
Through covenants of convenience
Like superstitious natives and flash photography
Suddenly
Reflections/Relationships become less
Tangible
Everything growing softer
Except the abuse
Solitude
Safety
Seclusion
Feeling smaller and shorter
Turn on the television
Crawl under the covers
Will anyone notice when you breathe your last
In three years time
They’ll call it
Introversion
Reclusion
Depression
There will be theories and rumors and movies of the week
They’ll label the bones
Lock them in a drawer and speculate
But the audience got what they wanted
The lady vanished before their eyes
And Magicians never tell their secrets
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