4 days deep in January’s throat and I already feel my veins holding brick walls,
My breath has become even shallower than the last time
When I promised myself
I wouldn’t forget how to breathe again
I remember the days when my bones still held onto the youth of believing the home you grew up in, would always be your home. I remember the feeling of my 9 year old palms pressed against my parents shoulders, as they held me between them. I am 19, and I am standing with my arms stretched outward, my bones a median between the people I called home. My voice a tight rope, a game of tug of war I am trying desperately, to make both sides win. Winter took over the leaves and the trees lost everything, winter took over our bones and I watched as autumn died under Octobers hand, and she watched as we died with it.

A copper pulse, a mouth full of silence,
full of small talk and splintered tongues, running their bodies dry trying to break the empty,
Full of “how are you’s”,
But never “I’m sorry’s.”

I’ll carry in my pocket a picture of 4 little flowers;

I say the word family out loud until my breath becomes frozen,

I say it out loud until it sounds as foreign as its meaning,
Until it tastes as sour on my tongue as listening to your foot steps walk out that door,
Until it feels as heavy as knowing I can not stop you–
Until the vowels disappear;

Until we disappear.


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Cory Garcia
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