23 (The Death Cure)

able to keep hold of the biggest parts
of herself, storing the corpses of others in
memory coffins, wailing to be woken–

resistant to themselves but falling like
missing puzzle pieces into their own
characters’ shapes, approaching dress
rehearsal, the hour of falsehood,
the moment shit starts to get real

the best worst performance of a lifetime
gets her killed; willingly she steps into her
own night, desperation in hand,
and one last chance has never seemed
so fucking imminent
until she opens the box, shakes it,
tearing wrapping away;
looks inside

she looks back out at herself
and screams

Poem by Shane Douglas Keene

READ THE SERIAL NOVEL BY JOSH MALERMAN