I am 23 years old
and still come crying,
arms open like a scarecrow,
reaching out to my mother,
asking her why things hurt
asking her why it’s still so difficult
why people disappear,
cancer weaving a thread of familiarity in my life,
a plot line I am not okay with,
morbid motif that I refuse to keep reading.
I am becoming acquainted with the Grim Reaper,
he is a contact
in my phone,
but I never pick up,
though he often tries to call.
“You look so much like your father.”
I know,
I know.
What if my body is like his too
What if sickness starts like this
A fear of acknowledging
something isn’t right
I am 23 years old
and still come crying to my mother,
still come asking for forgiveness,
still comb through old memories trying to piece them together again.
Death is on every street corner,
and I am 23 years old
too young,
to see him so often,
so I let the phone ring.
I do not ever answer.
I will not listen to the voicemail.
I will not listen to the voicemail.
I will not listen to the voicemail. 
