If I did not write, I would
have
been sympathy for
family.
If I did not write, they could have
cried on
their partner’s shoulders
about how they could have helped.
Or,
if they could have.
If I did not write,
a rope might not hang so loose;
a ground may not be hollow;
a sister
may miss another sister’s voice.
Instead,
I become ferocious.
Ravenous.
I let ink seep out from under
bitten fingernails to
stain swollen
pages of life.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 