Colder, Warmer

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.

All alone. 

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. 

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." 

"Mama..." 

     

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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