A Bit of Pretty

During rainstorms

Crying in a bed that isn’t yours
is like leaving your grief in the arms
of a complete stranger. The sheets
do not recognize your smell or the tightness
of your grip and the pillows mistake
your tears for dripping sweat. They have not yet
learned the pace of your brokenness or
that the conveyor belt of your heart is worn

Your sighs sound restful at first
Your shakes start out gentle and then grow into something
that feels like a volcano at the brink of an eruption.

Your sobs are fighting this war
pushing back against your will to stay silent, rebelling.

You are rubbing your chest in a soft circular motion
the same way your mother rubbed your back
through every rainstorm when you were young
You are running out of air
Holding your head like your neck is on its knees
Whispering words that sound a lot
like begging

Like you want to survive this
but you aren’t sure

Like you might make it through
but not for long

Like you have given so much,
for so long, and all that’s left, is. 

*image credit.