broodings

but mama

i wrote this ages ago when i was sick & probably delirious which is why this is so gross

there's poetry in the way you can
feel all my bones, pressing up
against my skin,
art in the way it hurts a
bit when you tap them,
and volumes in the bruises
that form a week later,
and i am so ill,
tears streaming down my face,
the backs of my eyes aching
so much i want to gouge them out,
and pounding headaches
bruises, coughs,
'i can't breathe, mama.'
'i'll get some painkillers
for you, my poor baby.'
yes, but mama, i can't
b r e a t h e ,
and the only thing
painkillers will do
is make me feel sick,
sicker than i felt before,
and i croak out for some
water, sounding like a
chain smoker, 3 packs a day,
i guess i am,
i don't smoke cigarettes,
but your thoughts,
your lies, and it's finally
caught up on me,
'i can't breathe, mama.'