GodsInWheatfields

My heart would spill out on the paper.

Beep.

Beep.

Where do we start?

Where I talked too much as a child?

Where I learned not to say the wrong thing to avoid getting screamed at?

Where I was chased by a man for the first time?

Where I, for the first time, felt what it was like to not be chosen ?

Where every ache in my bone was dismissed and ignored ?

Where i was called lazy with lead in my bones?

Or maybe where I have to crawl and scream and cry and writhe for every single thing in this life?

Where does it hurt?

I have nowhere else to put it.

This grief.

Fire does what fire is.

Where the bed still smells like you. I will turn around to where you were supposed to be and your absence will punch me in the gut. For the 1000th time in a row.

I’ll call out your name when Charlie does something funny and be deafened by silence of your response.

“He would’ve liked you to live on”

No, I don’t want you Lorelai, I crave you like a sickness. Like you’re traveling between my veins and I can’t rid myself of you. I can’t rid myself of your scent, and your laugh, and the way the wind ruffles your hair when you’ve been out by the fields.