every crack in the toilet seat
reeks of piss
the quivering on top of my lips
shows no compassion at all
the burden of death sits heavy on my shoulders
like a shawl made out of bricks
no piece of blue in the sky
can color over this deep, deep blackness
it seeps from my skin like oil
and it covers my face like a rash
and only those suffering with the same disease
can see it
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 