sad eyes,
falling victim to the fatigue.
the sad words plundering out
of the sad mouth.
i keep speaking,
glossing over the
sad feeling of your pulse,
that i cannot feel.
they say you’re not coming back.
that what i feel
is not coming back.
i keep speaking though,
wondering if you can hear me.
i think you can,
even if the ears that were once connected to the sides of your face
are now melting into the soil
and blooming into the flowers
i pick to place on your nose,
and eyes, and collarbone.
PUTREFACTION
Grace Waterman, 2020
11
those fingertips,
the ones that you used to pluck my
heart out with,
now crease into the wiggle of worms,
where you can’t discover the constellation of freckles on my back,
or the places that would make me giggle,
or why why i hum that one song when i cook.
you can't feel my smile,
or the wavelengths of my voice.
i can't walk on my own.
i worry too much,
and see the pain dripping from people’s kneecaps.
it all comes rushing,
rushing too fast,
until it's just me.
just me in an endless sea of people.
i can’t see on my own,
i can’t hear on my own,
i can’t on my own.
because you took that
all away when you left me.