SICK LIT MAGAZINE

Here at the End of All Things

Thank you for calling me ‘honey-bear.’

Thank you sewing the shirt that I’m wearing

And for patching me up with violet yarn.

Thank you for loving the rain.

Thank you for loving the quiet

Of the world we live in.

Thank you for teaching me how to breathe.

Thank you for giving me a chance

On life, life with you.

Thank you for remembering my birthday.

Thank you for reminding me how important

My birthday is to you.

Thank you for being my friend.

Thank you for catching me

When I fall to the ground.

Thank you for smiling, and

Thank you for the gentle push

Off the ground, so I can stand tall again.

The world will always be ours, honey-bear.

It’s quiet now.

Breathe. Do you remember how?

It’s raining, honey-bear.

I’m here to fix you.

You’re broken.

I’ll patch you up.

On Learning How to Be a Husband

Love is not just

a home,

nor is it the sun.

It is the desert

and its bitter cold;

The blood on our fingers,

the blisters on our soles.

The Stutterer

I mumble and stumble and jumble

My words.

Not just any words;

The important words:

Words to get my point ac-c-roooss.

Words toletpe ople know howif-f-fee l.

Words to tttttttellmymotherimmmmmssssorryfor not beingthththththere.

(Sorry? Oh…)

Words to tell my mother I’m sorry for not being there.

WordsforallthetimesI’velost…

I don’t feel like I’ve ever really won

With words.

Is this m-m-making sense to y-y-y-you?!?!

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