October 20, 2017.
To my mother whom I lost, the sister that joined her, and the kids that keep me going.
no art in mourning
"There is not much I can say", I tell myself as I stare at my screen.
It's pain, it's suffering, it's screaming internally-
But I'm here and I have to be right now for my nephew and neice.
Because there's such a thing that allows hearts to crack and eyes to never stop crying.
And I look at them, in their bright blue eyes that went from looking like lively ponds with depth to a bottomless pit.
And I register that look, I shiver at that look, and I have had that look when I lost my mother.
Not much older was I, either, and I whisper in their little ears that life won't always seem this low.
That these feelings come and go.
I watch them smile at me, wide with pink cheeks and every tooth showing.
And the next I am drying their eyes and saying that their mother is in the air that circles them, filling their lungs every morning.
I hurt for them, I curse at any and all Gods that I don't believe even exist, because I have no one to blame right now.
I want answers; I want to breathe in excuses like cigarette smoke and exhale it to start feeling better.
There is no art is mourning, this is only human.
I glare at myself in the mirror, analyzing facial features.
I want to find something of my sister's, something of my mother's.
But all I see is two tombstones side by side reflected in my eyes.
I blank out, and wonder about why it couldn't have been myself.
Why my sister could still be here with her two babies and husband-
with the sacrifice of a life that I must take forgranted or something?
I'm not sure. It's just not fair.
My neice wants to sleep with photograps of her mother.
She is eight.
My nephew is trying to be too strong for his age but he breaks apart in my arms and crumbles like some sort of tart pastry that is much too sour to be devoured.
He is ten.
I whisper my, "I love you's" in the air hoping they travel somewhere and cross last breaths.
I look at my mother and big sister next to each other again,
and I think about how inviting it is to join them.
But all I can do is look at those kids and say that I will not leave them like I was left.
Poetry by aidan haskel
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Written on 2017-10-21 at 02:43
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