Wednesday, January 22, 2014

(who is this creature, pathetic)

(December, 2013)

Her fire reminds me of when I felt powerful. Who is this creature, pathetic, curled into bedclothes and crying?

I drink moonshine with cranberries outside I watch the moon
shine I slide my fingers down his back. He gifts coffee into my curled palms I drink it.
ask for more and more almond milk, willing it to be
not bitter.

today I will hold the baby, maybe shower, maybe eat some gluten-free cranberry bread. that my life is this simple, this privileged, this miraculous. and that I still press the palms of my hands into my eyes
and weep. he tugs at my forearms pleads speak, speak

I look to the ceiling. This is the diagnosis. I refuse to let the words enter my life.

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