she shuffled through
the halls in hours
as small as
she was as a child;
i could hear her hiss and wheeze
inhaling air as if it were a
plasm
ghost. i sat, alarmed. heard the popping and tearing in her
sterile lungs,
watched her fever spike up passed the
sun.
and it's these mornings that you'd rather pay attention to the sick than the dying.
it's these mornings you spend curled up in comforters while i let november run it's course.
maybe i'm cold.
maybe i'm gone.
you can hope and hopeandhope..
that you'll never ever know what really goes on.
Author notes
just read it.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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it's these mornings you spend curled up in comforters while i let november run it's course.
goes without saying at this point, but: amazing. never put down the pen.
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Confronting and slightly raw to read, I'd quote my favorite parts but that would lead me to copy & pasting almost the whole thing, although your final 4 lines bleed together nicely in a moderately disjointed ending that sound almost like a challenge.
Great write hun
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