I sit in the room where it happened
And I stare down the wall
No photos left
No paintings
Just holes in the dry wall.
I stare at empty closet shelves
And try to wrack my brain
There must be more
To say or do
There has to be a way.
I wrote and wrote to try to
Dry the melting in my eyes
But all I feel is hurt
And shame and
Terrified.
Each day you left I felt it
Like I wasn’t good enough
Like whole chapter torn
And burned along with
With all your stuff.
Writing doesn’t matter
With no one who can read
And feeling often shatter
When we are most in need.
Dayna Lang 