I wish my
grandmother
was prim in
her not-so-old age.
She may
swear just as much,
but the
lithium coated, Alzheimer’s ridden
stories
homogenize with linoleum floored, morphine
sprayed
hallucinations.
Making it so
yanking all seven cords
from the
wall would no longer
be a
kindness, but
an
apologetic euthanization.
It is the
nature of the living to fear life.
That is why
we run
out of the
florescent, blood
flecked delivery room.
Seeing this
new
organism,
just shot
into the
world
in a stream
of guts.
Potential
filled
with so many
angsty,
heart-broken
years left
to squander.
We all feel
that nickel
hit the bottom of the well.
A pain of
disappointment, pain so terrifying
that we are
running from life, but still
too scared
to die without having
some sort of
legacy in grandkids
who will
always remember
our shitty
stories.
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