he once told me that sometimes,
survival can be its own death sentence.
we are capable of withstanding
enormous trauma. we are capable
of breathing through it.
we still get up in the morning
and pretend that time will heal us
(but know it won't),
we get dressed and read the papers
and drink cups of coffee
and then we go to work,
acting like we still have something
to live for, acting like we should
be grateful to still be alive.
we do what's expected of us
and fake smiles and make empty
promises and resort to prayer
but nothing holds any significance.
"sometimes survival can be its own
death sentence", he said.
we're alive, yes;
but what's the point.