Word Jumble

Everything hurts.

Putting on a shirt
Clipping my fingernails
Shaving
Brushing my hair
Breathing in
and breathing out.

Each shallow breath,
one after the other,
a reminder
of something you will never do.

The achiness in my arms,
in my chest,
in my stomach,
is normal, they say.
It will go away.
10 years from now, I might not even
think of you
every
single
hour
of every single day.

It is an alarming thought.

They admire my necklace —
the sign of infinity and your birthstone.
‘Aw, she is close to your heart,’ they say
‘No! She is not close to my heart!’ (I snapback silently).

She is in my bones
She lives in my cells
She is here right now!

I cannot remember
what else I was going to say (that will get better, too, according to them).
It was on the tip of my tongue
but now, gone.

A thought, like you,
not fully formed,
suddenly extinguished,

and emptied out into the universe.

Do not try to comfort a mother
who has just buried her child.

She’s not listening to you, anyways.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this:
search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close