I miss you all so much but I’m also glad you’re gone

I am still here

Many many years are on top of this chest

Since I first laid down on this side of the bed

Once again existing at 3 am

So sober as the ghost train echos

Hearing the haunting cries of steel shaking

Breaking up the cold air and deadened night

From this warm safe room

It tastes like hopelessness

And a sly sense of humour

There is no owl in the window this time

Only the same memories with new injuries

Tragedy has come and gone and

I am still here



Unadulterated panic

Born of my Brain and my


I have been asleep for days

And also blindingly awake

I’ve been stuck in a mayhem of reality

And fiction

The fiction is what I want life to be

Reality is eating me from the outside in and back


But when i need to awaken from this numb slumber of human denial

Pain isn’t obvious

I ferociously stand at the foot of my bed,

The frame of the doorway,

The pantry in the dark,

And pace in the quiet gloom of first world terror midst an entire worlds’ nightmare

I need to be pinched so I pour a drink

Sanity is more performing than ever



Picture-perfect sundial, spinning on a curve, away from the porch light, not catching time the way I want it to. Such a useless present from Mom on my 28th birthday.

He had bought me a silver necklace and the pajama set I’m wearing. I’m 30 now.

I pick up the sundial and spin it again. Glowing amber and blue, so subtle, the precursor to sunrise, begins to illuminate my surroundings. The haze hangs lovingly.

He said he would get the car tuned up for our upcoming road trip to Bill and Dessie’s wedding.

The sun is now peaking over the horizon of suburbia, glittering not only the grass, but windows of homes and cars, hurting my eyes as I shield my face.

I saw her name in his phone on Wednesday.

More minutes pass, slow and painful. The dichotomy of the neighbourhood waking up and I having not yet slept, pangs brutally in my temples and chest.

He stopped telling me he loved me.

The birds are snapping up the worms protruding from our green, liquid-dusted lawn. How cruel an outwardly beautiful life can be.

He said she was just a friend, just an intern at the office.

Hunger rumbles in my stomach but is quickly replaced with sickness. Replaced.

He went to a work function last night where there was fine dining, cocktail dresses, champagne, and power-point presentations.

Ms. Mary steps outside in her fuzzy, pink robe to retrieve her paper. She waves to me. I wave back and for some reason – this innocent transaction produces tears from my insignificant skull. I don’t allow these tears to fall, because that would make it real.

He didn’t come home last night.



A Certain Kind of Torture

I am awash, with violent thoughts;

cannot control my ponder.

Remain asleep, each painful breath,

awake –

I am no longer.

Passing time, ticks away,

beneath my heaving chest.

Puncture all my future beats,

heart –

slowly stabbed to death.

© Brittany Graham and brittsbanter.wordpress.com, 2013-2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Brittany Graham and brittsbanter.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.