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bless his heart (a poem)
My sonstares at my scalpthe way you might lookat a storm cloud thatshouldn’t be thereon a summer day. He says it softly,like a secret folded in two—“Mom, can you wear your wigwhen we go out?” Not because he’s ashamed.But because he knowsthe world doesn’t hold gentlethe way he…
These Days [a poem]
These days… sleep slips through my fingers. Muscle aches feel as constant as the breath in my lungs. I still catch glimpses of a stranger in the mirror—shorter hair now, a harsh reminder of the prayers I whispered just to keep it. These days… exhaustion feels like my…
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