She calls me,
upon her deathbed,
she's bruised,
broken,
and sore.

Dear child,
I love you,
I know I hurt you,
but know this one thing,
I love you,
my child.

She calls for my hand,
I lay it on her wilting,
fragile,
and broken hand.

She struggles to bring a hand,
over to my cheek,
and whispers,





















"I honestly should have swallowed..."

Life is an illusion.
The one reading this doesn't exist.
The one writing this doesn't exist.
Anything I say (you, me, anyone really)
Will not matter in 30 days
30 hours?
30 minutes?
30 seconds?
Who's to say?