So I wrote this poem … and it honestly is the most personal thing that I’ve ever written … it’s about my cousin, who my family lost in December.
It’s what was drawing my attention away from this blog.
Not all of the formatting transferred–I had some lines left aligned, some right aligned. But I didn’t feel like redoing all of that.
I think the effect of reading it will still be the same.
… please enjoy.
(Grieving/&/COPING)// F O R S H A Y L A // The Lost Cousin
I dreamed of her again last night,
the same e x t i n g u i s h e d flame I had
watched wither and pass before me.
Her lips had color this time
hair flowing & beautiful
something I was glad to see
her eyes were RED
& her teeth bared under a snarl that—begged
to know Why This Happed to a light so young.
I felt the danger when I saw the unvoiced
threat in her eyes, a threat against the
world of m e d i c i n e that f a i l e d a G R I E V I N G
family after months of pain that will continue
for years, leaving us all asking
I awoke sheets clinging to clammy skin
With Sweatful Terror.
tears rolled d o w n m y c h e e k
only to land on a pillow with a h o l l o w
I remember the image of her.
sweet dead baby cousin
head half shaved the wrong way
forehead doubled/matted tendrils brushing neck
c o l o r l e s s l i p s parted by a b r e a t h i n g t u b e.
I remember begging that image
To leave me be.
I need. To. sleep.
Let. Me. sleep.
And I’ll let you rest too.
Your coffin is prettier than my bed
Ever will be.
Sheridan holding her limp hand to paint her nails
a shade of pink—her favorite color
aunt is wailing
the floor thunders when I walk it.
I need to sleep.
this is the fourth night in a row
that i’ve seen her
seen all this
& i know it will keep up.
Her boyfriend was R O M E O
(we shouldn’t have kept him away)
I spoke to her
the day before she was admitted
she was complaining
but her hair & makeup
w a s p e r f e c t
I wish that had been my last image of her.
Sixteen is far too young,
The pills aren’t helping
god—i didn’t even cry
when they p u l l e d t h e p l u g
but the depth of sorrow
cracks beyond my heart into the
i c e b u r g
below my surface,
leaving my subconscious to sort out
a l l t h a t i c a n n o t d e a l w i t h
without my fingers pressed to a keyboard.
So … uh. Thanks for reading.
I hope you liked it. I worked really hard on it–it took a lot out of me.