I used to love my flowers. They reminded me of summertime, carefree days and warmth. But now my brain has tangled them with imagery of my baby suffering. I can no longer disassociate this blooming flower...
from these bruised flowers.
And when the hot sun, that I used to love, beats down on me I think of how her mouth and nose looked when I would come back in the mornings. No mercy from the imaginary sun that dried her lips into rock candy and caused her nose to bleed.
The smell of fresh cut grass tells me that today there may be some skin missing or an infection brewing.
As I watch the ants coming and going, all over their little hills,
I see the needle pricks. Once, after her surgery, I counted 47 holes in her wrists and upper inner thighs... and then I stopped counting. With nothing left to hit on the outsides, it went in under her armpit.
I debate whether I should destroy the pictures and burn her accoutrements. Will summertime return to me anew if I do?
Maybe you should talk to someone my husband says. That is why I write, I say.
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