It was the words of the broken
that spoke through me, fast &
rapid - a tidal wave rushing through
my shredded memories of her weathered face
lying on that broken bed.
Fingers cold with age, I could warm them with
the madness that pumped through my viens.
So I cut them open, gushing onto my crisp, white
sheets mama washed two nights ago.
I bled but she got warmer...
as I grew colder.
She took and took, while I grew
colder and colder.
Because I loved her, not by blood
but by our experience one couldn't understood.
Then it stopped- no lights in the distance-
because she resisted?
A warm illusion rose through my weakened state.
Basked in filmy glow, she rose &
stitched me up. A broken doll on the
corner of an empty bed.
But it wasn't her that I saw.
"I got you, sweetheart... I got you."