As I child, I prepared.
I asked questions:
“When you die, will I
share your stuff with anyone?”
It is all yours.
As a teen, I adjusted.
Two, three, nights alone:
“I’ll call you when I get there.”
Watch for deer on
the road.
As an adult, I jumped.
Ready to be off on my own.
“Text shorter, leave paragraphs for the phone.”
I’ll send 100
messages and leave a voicemail at the tone.
By myself, I cried.
I can’t handle all you gave me.
I’m not ready to be alone.
Now with nowhere to turn to,
No reason for my phone.
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