She spoons the silence like medicine, slow --
into the mouth of a man who once laughed,
once ran through storms and didn't get wet.
Now he lies still,
wrapped in smoke-stained defiance,
eyes dulled by the ritual of decay.
She folds his laundry like prayers,
each shirt a plea.
::Please live::
Each sock a whisper.
::Please see me::
But he hears only the music
of his own undoing,
a symphony of rusted veins and wasted chances.
The doctors left their warnings at the door --
he used them to light another cigarette.
::She watched::
Her hands, once fierce with hope,
trembled like leaves too long in winter.
Love has no instruction
for the hospice of the living.
She's buried pieces of him
in every pill ignored, every meal untouched.
She's the mourner of a man not yet dead --
a ghost tied to flesh by habit and name.
At night, she dreams of locking the fridge,
flushing the liquor,
screaming until the truth pierces the sickness
like sunlight through a boarded window.
But dawn always comes too gentle,
and she, always too afraid
to watch him break all over again.
He smiles sometimes --
crooked, tired, defiant.
"I'm fine, Ma Ma."
::She nods::
Because the lie is warmer
than the cold truth,
She's feeding ghosts
in a house where love
can't keep anyone alive.
But madness is not a scream --
it's a lullaby sung too long,
rocking the cradle of grief
long after the child has grown into ruin.
She talks to the walls now,
asks the dishes why they bother being clean,
asks the mirror if it's seen her son
somewhere inside those eyes.
Her prayers have turned bitter --
not for healing anymore,
but for mercy in forgetting.
For an end to the waiting,
to the twitch of hope
that poisons every breath she takes.
She curses the love
that won't let her walk away,
and the guilt that brands her heels
when she tries.
Sometimes she watches him sleep --
his breath shallow,
his skin pale like old wax --
and wonders if tonight
will be the night.
If God will finally answer
the question she's too ashamed to ask.
She's become the shadow behind the door,
the whisper in the hallway,
the mother of a man who is dying
by choice,
and she,
by watching.
© Dark Water Diaries
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 2:18 PM UTC
She spoons the silence like medicine, slow --
into the mouth of a man who once laughed,
once ran through storms and didn't get wet.
Now he lies still,
wrapped in smoke-stained defiance,
eyes dulled by the ritual of decay.
She folds his laundry like prayers,
each shirt a plea.
::Please live::
Each sock a whisper.
::Please see me::
But he hears only the music
of his own undoing,
a symphony of rusted veins and wasted chances.
The doctors left their warnings at the door --
he used them to light another cigarette.
::She watched::
Her hands, once fierce with hope,
trembled like leaves too long in winter.
Love has no instruction
for the hospice of the living.
She's buried pieces of him
in every pill ignored, every meal untouched.
She's the mourner of a man not yet dead --
a ghost tied to flesh by habit and name.
At night, she dreams of locking the fridge,
flushing the liquor,
screaming until the truth pierces the sickness
like sunlight through a boarded window.
But dawn always comes too gentle,
and she, always too afraid
to watch him break all over again.
He smiles sometimes --
crooked, tired, defiant.
"I'm fine, Ma Ma."
::She nods::
Because the lie is warmer
than the cold truth,
She's feeding ghosts
in a house where love
can't keep anyone alive.
But madness is not a scream --
it's a lullaby sung too long,
rocking the cradle of grief
long after the child has grown into ruin.
She talks to the walls now,
asks the dishes why they bother being clean,
asks the mirror if it's seen her son
somewhere inside those eyes.
Her prayers have turned bitter --
not for healing anymore,
but for mercy in forgetting.
For an end to the waiting,
to the twitch of hope
that poisons every breath she takes.
She curses the love
that won't let her walk away,
and the guilt that brands her heels
when she tries.
Sometimes she watches him sleep --
his breath shallow,
his skin pale like old wax --
and wonders if tonight
will be the night.
If God will finally answer
the question she's too ashamed to ask.
She's become the shadow behind the door,
the whisper in the hallway,
the mother of a man who is dying
by choice,
and she,
by watching.
© Dark Water Diaries
