Chopping Away From The Heart
The first slice into an onion,
those tears that swell from eyes
smother me every morning.
My hands feel so light,
not enough weight in them.
I don’t dream about the blood
anymore.
Stomach too flat, not round enough,
not four months. I forced myself to
gain fifteen pounds. I thought maybe
that’ll make up for what isn’t inside.
When the moon is full I think
about children, Aldehyde, and Etelvina.
I stay awake with my own agony.
These stretchmarks
on my hips are a broken lullaby.
Who do I sing it out to
when I’m feeling lonely?
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Full of realistic pain. Great poetry