I’ve spent years here playing with my ashes,
Watching seasons pass and the grass regrow...

Grayed and heavy cumulus gather overhead,
Attempting to thwart my sunshine endorphins...

The days pass by in a dizzying blur.
And I find myself counting the seconds until...

My blood looks enticing in its compartments.
I’m tempted to pierce my paper-thin skin...

They do not change like the seasons.
My mother is the height of summer...

I have no ability to shake or ignore this feeling...
It eases into my veins, paranoia bubbling under my...

Today marks six months after your passing.
On this blistering cold May Mother’s Day...

I went into the bookstore today.
You know the one...

I wanted to be selfish.
To fall to my knees, entangle our fingers...

I am not a poet.
No linguist, nor painter of the written word...

Blood covers my hands, my fingers trembling.
My throat is raw and burns from stale acid...

I know this may make me sound desperate but
There is a part of me that will always want you...