I hate the burning ache.  The one that splashes over me when you pass through my mind.

W, the thought of you is mingled with the thought of J.  As the dreaded June 17th creeps upon me I fell myself numbing up,  yet yearning to feel pain.  Physical pain, anything to distract my aching heart.

I can't take this anymore.

I can't take this again.

I shouldn't have believed.

Foolish, once again.

Experiences

Today, while driving home I thought about the mom, the one whose son hung himself.  I thought about the 12 hours I spent with her, waiting for donors to be found.  Waiting for all of the tests to be run.  Waiting for the procurement teams to come and collect the vital bits and pieces he had left to offer.  I thought about her eyes, red from sobs, all cried out.  I thought about the confused look on her face as she pointed to her son, tethered to a ventilator and multiple IV's. "He's not dead" she said over and over.  His pink cheeks and artificially warmed skin giving the illusion of life.  I thought about the police officers, standing guard, watching closely as his soulless body gave rise to the air being forced in his lungs, tricking his heart into thinking it was suppose to keep beating.  I thought about the four hours I spent in the OR waiting room, watching her vacillate between the anger of a mother bear, and the hurt of an abandoned child.  I thought about the moment, the moment she said she wanted to stay, she wanted to see him one last time.  I tried to warn her.  Warn her that a body warmed by heated blankets and pumped full of chemicals doesn't look dead.  I told her of the ashen skin, the cold skin, the way loving features sink into the harsh contours of a skeleton.  I advised her not to go, not to enter the room and look behind the curtain.  But one can not stop a parent from seeing their child.  Her sobbing scream echos in my head as I see her throw her heaving body across that of her son.  "You killed him" she cried, "you killed him".  I reached out a hand of comfort, the officer standing near stared at the floor, twisting his black shoe back and forth, counting the seconds.  "It's time to go", I said, blinking hard, regretting the late hour and the four hour drive home.  "It's time to go home".  An animal-like moan resonated from the mass of mother and son.  "I know you don't want to leave, but it's time to go".  She clenched harder, gritting her teach, "you can't take him away, you killed him, you killed him!".  The officer stepped in, hiding behind the innate force of his job he placed his hand on her shoulder.  She twisted underneath his touch.  "Don't make this any harder than it already is," he said.  Looking at me he motioned for help.  "Come, it's been a long night, " I said, gently reaching for her hand  "YOU KILLED HIM" she screamed looking in my eyes.  She needs to believe this, I told myself, she needs to believe that you killed him.  I didn't kill him, but I almost wished I had, wished her pain could forever be focused on me, on someone other than the one who actually made the choice to die, someone other than her son.  I thought about the officer and I, physically prying her off of her dead son's body.  Feeling the invasive necessity of our actions.  My heart hurt for her, hurt for the nightmare she would never wake from.  I thought of how she'd aged over the few hours I'd spent with her.  An old woman, about to bury her child.  I cringe now as I cringed then.  Too much pain.  Too much loss.  And grief that one can never comprehend.

That was the day you called to ask me if you should keep the TV, the one you didn't pay for.  I was overwhelmed by death that day, and you wanted me to tell you it was ok to steal.  Ok to forgo honesty.  

It wasn't ok.  Nothing was ok about that day.  But you didn't ask, and you kept the TV, and every time I looked at it I thought of her, and the ashen child wrapped in white sheets.

South Carolina

it was a dream
but the screams were real
quick
frantic yelps
my mind caught between
fragments of reality

he scooped me up
rocked
held me tight
till the screams
subsided to pathetic whimpers

he didn't say a word
but I felt it
wrapped around my body
curled in his arms
one brief moment

repose from the horror
of being awake

there is a part of me that is covered in blood
choking on spit and bile
a gurgling scream
rising from the shuddering sobs
locked within the recess
of isolation
It is there that I claw at my face
just to feel
stinging agony
Something to break the melancholy
silence of endless waiting

There's a gridlock inside of me creating a paralysis

My Heart Always Remembers the Date

Cruelty: the subconscious holding you hostage and torturing you with twisted memories while you're paralyzed by slumber.

Echo

Hollow
like a burned out tree
that tasted death
one painful flame at a time

A buzzing silence fills my head. Time has become a foreign commodity that ceased to exist in useful form the moment our lips parted.

Yes, the ghost inside of me still cries for you, still shudders, racked with pain. My living corpse continues to pretend that life is normal and as it should be, when I know the truth.

If I had one wish I would take it back
all of it
save myself from the intense and never ending pain of loss

an alternate reality