Dear Mommy,
Some days
your death feels like
a calculus exam
laid in front of me
when I can only do
basic arithmetic
or
being jarred from sleep
in the middle of the night
by a starved
angry grizzly bear
tearing down the tent
while on a camping trip
or
an offensive comment
my spirit is forced
to listen to
at ear-splitting decibels
on repeat
or
being trapped
in a small room
with the incessant
low-battery beep
of a smoke detector
or
biting my tongue
in the same spot
28 times
in one day
or
having gum surgery done
without anesthesia
or
being shoved
in the back
and crashing face-first
into a pile
of glass-shard-filled dirt
or
steel-toe cowboy boots
knocking violently
against my temples
or
cat claws
being slowly dragged
across the entirety
of my body
or
I'm not strong enough
for this today
or
I want to
genie-blink
your ashes
back into your flesh
so I can rest my forehead
against yours
and we can nuzzle noses
one more time
or
please come back
or
I miss you
or
I need you
or
I love you
or
D
all of the above
