Losing You Never Ends

A poem by a bereaved mother.

The sunrise in our bustling little town, a place you no longer exist. (image owned by author)

My sweet son
On bad days
I can hear your laugh
And that sweet lisp in your voice
That I cherish

I see your bouncing
Golden curls
And all the fantastic worlds
That your beautiful little mind
Created
That we played in

On worse days
My hair is matted
Nothing fucking matters
I don’t bother to brush my teeth

I sink back
Into this mattress
And when I finally force open my eyes
I’ve lost weeks

I dig so deep into myself
To find the strength
To refuse to think
Of all the worms
Wriggling round
In your brain

All the black mold masking
Your glassy blue eyes

Your warm smooth skin
Now separating from bone

The larva of flies
Burrowing holes

How dare
The sun fucking rise
When the light of my life
Is the same temperature
As the ground
In which he is sleeping?

How many more fucking years
Will I be forced to fear
That your sweet little body
Is cold?

Every day of my life, I am sorry.