by Hannah Reynolds
It’s like gravel gathering deep in my gut,
long, laborious gasps for air.
A sharp stab straight to the chest
Maybe it isn’t my chest, after all.
It’s the constant, cutting questions
The when, and the why
It’s the “shut the fuck up!”
Maybe we just can’t, after all.
It’s worse than the slice from a knife;
worse still than bones, brittle and broken.
Hold your breath; here’s to hoping,
for two little lines—after all.
