picking scabs
is the only thing I seem to be
good at these days

being awake challenges being asleep
in what’s more unnatural and labored

pain and grief and fear slosh around in my brain
and feed a strange concoction
to the microscopic bugs
that like to burrow underneath the broken
bits of my skin

it feels okay until the edges of my flesh creep together
and try to heal —
i swat the absurd idea away.

sounds of the dawn chorus and the nightingales
bleed together
as hazy chunks of time wag their fingers at me

i try to convince myself that each overwrought day
is one day closer to maybe
bringing home a breathing baby

but my gut usurps that hopeful notion,
it cries out in anguish, YOU TRAITOR!!!

you know that what’s missing from you today
only grows farther away
with each new face the moon mocks you with

how can time be anything else
other than just a serrated reminder
an emphatic proclamation

that life continues to go on
and on
without her

that tomorrow will never be okay

even if some kind of token of happiness
is what it brings

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