i don't have a home, i stated
matter of fact, biting my finger
nails like biting at this churning distress.
and i have to swallow milk and pre-natal
vitamins to feed the parasite growing
within me while the cancer reappears every
day at six pm and always stays until the
morning light. eyelids flutter open and
closed again & again because i wish not to
remember my life shriveled down to a
fragile apartment of seclusion grime
silence. so she puts an arm around me now to
say in an apologetic tone "someday things will get
better dear" and i, the lies staining me a
stranger in my skin, fight the tears
with my fists punched through these threadbare
pockets. "okay" i mumble numbly, faithless but
guessing she's guessed it, the truth.