Biological Truths

April 2017

if I sit really still

and quiet

and hold my breath

I can feel my heartbeat inside of me.

thump.           thump.           thump.           thump.

sometimes,

amidst the clinging swathes of my sheets,

the sound reverberates through my throat

and it’s like I’m being suffocated.

like the beat turned to molten stone,

pressing on my chest and pushing through my airways

but somehow, I’m still breathing.

I remember:

my mother’s face as she told me to run

for help, smooth like cling-wrap stretched taut

but a tremble in her breath,

stark white around her eyes.

the porcelain hospital with its porcelain people,

how everyone spoke soft and low

and how their words pierced through my paper skin

anyway.

the velvet flowers that I held,

a beautiful cascade of grief overflowing from my arms,

pillows of colour to soften the sharpness

of our loss.

hot tears as I cried in the bathroom

one Mother’s Day when I was 10

because my card wasn’t ready

and you weren’t there to buy the chocolates.

looking through your things

trying/wanting/needing to find something   meaningful

(something more)

and only finding dog-eared novels, empty notebooks,

unfinished plans.

staring at the grass that covers you

through the white noise in my head

and the thump thump thump of my heartbeat

and knowing, somehow,

I’m the one left breathing.