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.

Look,

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.