it’s a sick sort of feeling
sitting with your head who knows where
between your knees
against the wall
in your hands
maybe in your past filing through triggers
or in the future
dwelling on unfocused unspecific
make-believe horrors-to-be
cooked up by the part of your mind that used to conjure monsters
and place them in every dark place
in your childhood bedroom
the part of your mind that something inside you
for some reason
decided to feed

or maybe this time it’s nowhere at all
your head
maybe you’ll feel each tears slide down your cheek
in the shape of a question mark,
dotted with a freckle or a sigh
or an arm speckled with ink from where you tried
to replace a knife with a pen
and your face won’t bend to fit a mold of grief
it will remain vacant
a smooth expressionless canvas
on which each silent question
may leave its silent mark

maybe you’ll let go of everything that ever mattered
except your blanket, hoping to save some warmth
for your frostbitten thoughts
and the tears will go ahead and trace their salty punctuation
until it doesn’t bother you anymore
not any more than rain bothers a window
or a leaf
or blades of grass that make and ocean in the wind
and spell the truth:
“you miss him”

it’s a sick sort of feeling
sitting with your heart you know where
between his knees
against his wall
in his hands