She was afflicted, born with cursed blood.
Sultry summers, pomegranate juice dripping from our chins, staining our shirts, littering the curb, as we sat and spat out the sucked from seeds.
Sticky fingers intertwined, we planed or futures, always together. I breathed her breath, our absence of space. Face to face, forehead to forehead.
My soul’s twin.
Tainted blood, but not doomed. She could live, but she let go. Now she’s gone somewhere far from me. I cannot follow, I’ve already tried.
Some have no choice, their blood chooses for them. This was not her affliction; she could live while others will ultimately die.
Yet
she
chooses
death
each
day
with
every
pill
she
takes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
You should write a book....but words can't really do justice to your life. :) You are so much more than words.
+L, Thank you! I've always defined myself by my writing, my "words" It is moving to think that perhaps there is more...
Post a Comment