Tombstones on my Head

I carry tombstones on my head,
each one carved with something
I should have buried.

Names I don't say anymore.
Versions of me that died quietly.
Things I once thought would last
that didn't survive me.

Some nights,
the dead get heavy.

They press against my skull
like they want back in—
like grief is only a grave
that forgot to close.

So I walk around
with a cemetery above my eyes,
flowers growing from old wounds,
dirt beneath my thoughts.

And no one notices.

They only wonder
why I always look
so tired.