as in, I wish anything I’ve lived through would finally
end. As in, I wish I could say what the other side
of grief looks like but I’m still wading through
the relentless center of it. As in, I’ve removed fistfuls
of last words from the back of my stomach and cannot
remember any of them, but maybe that’s for the better.
Have you ever slept wrong on a terrible memory?
Slept worse on a good one? I’Il be blunt:
my trauma has begun to bore me.
This wicked heart is yearning for the power of hindsight.
I just want to look at something and know, without
ever having to kiss its face, that I can survive it.