Word Jumble

Everything hurts.

Putting on a shirt
Clipping my fingernails
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
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.

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