dear mom

i am so scared of losing you; i can’t even be in the same room

when you wash the dishes — watch television — fold laundry

i walk around scared — scared that i might lose you

what tumor?  it’s benign, they say — so me, i’m not worrying!

i get angry when you tell me anything — i’m just a shell behind my glasses

i shut down, get more lonely, bury myself in parties and long nights, books

and television, girls and writing, work and friends,

i walk around doing ordinary things — live in the room next to yours

never in the same room you’re in, but i want to be close to you

not next to you!

i am a coward, my friends and brother and sister

they all think i’m cruel (and a coward)

i suffer — the barely acknowledged — burning away 20 odd years

cigarettes down my throat; filtered, light, and tarred

running into myself, blocking myself, resisting myself

so i will never ever have to stop, can’t let myself think

the day will come — as all days do —

when i lose you.

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