Holding My Breath

I missed the feeling
of home,
mom’s handmade bread
in the oven,
dad’s voice waltzing
up the stairs
on a Sunday morning,
before he died and left me here
to struggle through alone.

I am trying my best
to hide the pain,
grinding my teeth
in my sleep,
dripping sweat and
angry sex in dreams,
pacing back and forth
while the carpet
tries to reason with me.
The lamps flutter,
light sizzles,
keeping time
with my sorrows,
I’m in a constant state of
holding my breath,
forcing the sobs
back down my throat
in the living room,
hospice forever knocking
at the hollow haunting door,
stress and insomnia
bursting me head open
while I try to push
my lips
into a smile
that will glide upwards
to my eyelids,
so you might perhaps
believe its real.

My very soul is
breaking into
pieces small enough
they could easily fit,
neatly and without
a swollen struggle,
into the silver jewelry box
you nestle in the
top drawer of your dresser
mixed in with lace and lingerie.

Ghosts in their galaxies,
I ate through the
thin layer of fog
that separated
the dead from the living,
spilling coffee and gasoline
in the process,
bitter stains in the carpet,
silent seizures in the dark,
spines contorting into
suitable suits,
adding one more cog
to the machine.
I saw the suicidal intent
behind your faked apathy stare,
you didn’t fool me,
not even for a second. 

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