I stood in a chapel built from grief,
where skulls sat quiet, jaw to cheek—
not screaming, not mourning—just there,
lined up like thoughts we try not to share.
A chandelier swung from someone’s spine,
and I thought, God, even death can design.
No stained glass saints, just ribs and wrists—
bone turned blessing by a monk’s cold kiss.
There’s no horror here, just hush,
just marrow’s memory turned to dust.
They didn’t ask to become display,
but here they are. We look. We stay.
I didn’t pray. I just watched the light
catch on collarbones, fragile and white.
And wondered, when I’m gone someday,
what part of me would they want to display?