Sunday, September 30, 2007


My mind constructs the perfect shoulder to cry on, broad and strong with collarbone sharp as a blade running up through the soft cotton of his imaginary blue shirt. His neck lean and muscular with the propensity to hide a face streamed with tears, soft sobs absorbed into the skin as their salts mingle. The warmth of his arms encircles me, heavy and anchoring so I cannot float away into the gray sky like a child’s balloon that has slipped from a tender wrist unknowingly. And in this grip I understand just how full my shell has become with the collection of useless words and ambitions, dreams unapproved by his majesty, so I agree to carry it still despite the murmuring in my ear, this imaginaries voice, whispering truths about the weight a hurt mother puts on the minds of us all. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

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