Morgue Worker

Date Unknown

Blood cakes the fingers

Of yet another victim 

That may as well be faceless

In the room of death

We are all as good as nameless

Identities left on the concrete floor

On the other side

Of the locked, sliding door

Bodies lay still

On cold metal slabs

Like the woman left in front of you

And as with every other spectrum

Her markings tell a story

Entire clumps of hair are likely to be found

In pools of drying blood

Borne from gaping gashes

That corrupt otherwise perfect skin

In her hands lay fragments of crumpled flowers

Her story is surely nothing special

Though Im sure to someone she meant something

In this room of the dead 

I am the only one among the living

I spend my decaying days

Befriending cold, slowly rotting corpses

Whose names I often do not know

But whose recent history I am well versed in

Many here come from rape

From murder,

From abuse,

Betrayal, 

And suicide,

But still, as with this woman,

It is nothing I've never seen before