Two years, and Counting

here in this waiting room, in my
summer blue dress and they
in their black
with their jackets wrapped
tight around
the bird bones that I
used to have too.
I will float above and watch them.
Listen to their delicate
chirps of conversation,
their little smiles on
the pale doll mouths,
and me,
elephant in the room,
distanced from their world
of rigidity,
alien to their structure
and routine
and power, too.
They’re there, across from me,
the black hole in the
room and it’s all I can
do to not stand and
run to them, to beg them
to suck me in,
to siphon off the blubber
that crept on
when I was busy trying to
find reasons,
scraping the bottom of the barrel for reasons,
scraping the bottom of a 2l carton of light vanilla
trying to find reasons.

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