I am dead

It’s never the same.

Day in day out.

The way light hits my eyes.

The way I see and don’t see.

How words hit my ears.

It’s as if it were all some surreal watercolor put before me,
one I can not understand. 

Now.

I am not the same.

I try.

Lord knows I try.

But I am not me.

Now.

After the marble.

I am one of the other ones.

The damaged.

The broken.

The infirmed.

Lost.

Trying to find my way out

of what is my brain.

Now.

Some days I want to just start screaming,

“Let me out.

Let me out.”

But no one comes.

Other days,

I limp along in my new reality

trying to forget

just who it is I am supposed to be.

Who I was.

I see but do not see.

I hear but do not hear.

I am dead.
But still I walk.

Holding on to Fofo

There isn’t much time now,

is there?

You and I sit together

on the edge.

Me on the chair,

and you on the bed.

I watch your face,

your eyes,

your lips,

to see

what you still know.

Your lips pooch forward,

strained,

as if trying to find somewhere to land,

an alien ship of sorts.

Hands limp as broken butterflies

by your side.

You tell me not to worry.

You tell me everything will be o.k.

You tell me you are fine.

But how can I believe you?

You do not know what day it is.

Or where you are.

Or who the president is.

Or how much I will miss you

when you are gone.

I hold your hand.

Stick my finger in yours

and hold on,

like I did

when I was a little girl.

Now, I do not know what I am holding on to.

You are already gone,

slipping away from me

faster

than I could have believed possible.

It is all happening too soon.

I am still standing on that fake white box

in my red Christmas dress,

holding your hand,

your face just out of the frame,

holding on and crying just like now,

trying to get something from you,

I could never have.

Holding on and crying –

Fofo.