My Depleting Sun

She tries to memorize

The faces of each family member

Yet her memories

Have seemed to betray her

As she finds herself the subject

Of a past-progressive, simultaneous present-progressive tense:

‘She was talking to her dead sister;’ ‘She is looking at her reflect-

-ion. Caught in a run-on, rest of her life, sentence.

 

Language is supposed to unite us,

Yet it simply exiles her, as she is constantly at a loss

For words. She is desperately reaching to grasp the words that escape

Her. Attempting to wrap her speech bubble with heavy tape

In hopes that this time it will not deflate.

But this bubble seems to pop and I hate

To watch it burst before she can even blow into the wand

And have her speech float beyond

 

Her mind.

It cannot be seen from the outside in

So we are just as blind

As she is when her tears begin.

We promise her that everything will be okay

But to her everything no longer means anything.

How can we promise this when she no longer comprehends ‘okay;’

When she used to give us everything and we feel like we can’t change anything?

 

To her son, she has become his sun,

Yet we all orbit around her, attempting to keep at least one

Planet bright so that she can always shine.

Just as with Icarus, her role as the sun is a battle line

In which we want to soar to her to feel her warmth and comfort

Forgetting that in the sun’s warmth we are confront-

-ed with the intensity of the flames as our wings catch fire

And we plummet down the sky, caught in her hellfire.

 

At moments I see traces of her etched on her face,

A reminder that part of her remains

And when that trace begins to smudge or erase,

I remember that it is our job to wield the pen to retain

Her by filling in the blanks and connecting the dots

Because she is inside there itching to get out,

Wanting to untangle the knots in her thoughts.

A deep desire to breakout of this perpetual blackout.

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