Moving Days

Moving, keep moving or she’ll catch me
mud beneath her claws
sensing weakness, a snag
in defenses
trauma rises
what happened to her–
not me–to HER…

Red saltwater blooms against pale skin
swelled with her life
pulled roses from her cheeks, petals
fell to the floor, so pretty, they’re
so pretty
wouldn’t it be nice to lie there and
rest, just a moment, so tired,
very tired.

And still it came,
a trickle, a stream,
like someone pulled out her cork
to let her breathe
but let her bleed
till she felt heat leave her veins
black walls closed in
and late gray lips hung.

So cold and too tired to fight
the moment came
and left
ashen lips kissed the last breath.

The lights went out and she was
alone and bloody
more on the floor than in she.
A second, an hour, a second,
a year
to the words over her shoulder
“Get up”
on the back of her neck
bossy and insistent, “You have to get up”
knowing “or else…” but no time to say it.

She saw
disassembled parts–a hand
with shaking fingers clutch the counter
“Get up. Get out”.
Legs like liquid lead sank
pulled her under, but no,
“Get up. Get out”.
Ears screamed; vision pinched
skin moved through air denser
than the most humid day.

Momentum, a push from behind
as legs melted, chest pressed flat against
the door–a block, a barrier, the other side
but Death was here
other-than-death must be
Doorknob, how does
the doorknob turn?

Pushed across the threshold
face to the floor
and Death slammed the door behind me.


About bittersweetverse

Writer, poet, lover. View all posts by bittersweetverse

8 responses to “Moving Days

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