Let go of your pulse.
You have something important to share, but the pace
is not yours.
Think about your relationship to blood, shit, spit, vomit, pus.
Hold him while his hair falls out on the pillow.
Deflect the questions, body-block the unwanted hugs.
Hold him while he sobs until pieces of him are falling out onto you.
Hold the washcloth. Hold the phone.
Hold her hand while you walk her to the office.
Hold the book while you read her to sleep.
Hold them all close until you can feel
their skin, their scabs,
their teeth, their nails,
their bones, their sweat,
on the pillow.
Hold onto the good memories.
Sink into the bad memories.
Choke on every memory.
Choke on food in the dining hall.
Choke on air, on pills, on your own words.
Carefully place your words around, but never on, yourself.
They have sharp edges, and too many things are already stabbing you.
Pick up the phone.
Pick up your clothes.
Pick up your spine.
you are a living thing.