GRIEF Poem: Dead Weight, by Lia Blount

You were only a mother—distracted or disordered through
my unknowing eyes. Childhood was breakfast in bed

stacked stagnant on nightstand, curtains drawn collected
dust, thinned skin and far away eyes buried sick beneath

bed sheets, withheld wanting sweat from pores left clothes
stained dark colors. I know what it feels like in closeness,

a cold space on chest, living outside looking in. What
is the opposite of growing? Swallowed breath and bitten

adolescence. I only knew to blame myself— mistook tired
for a corpse, carrying weight still light in living. You once

told me that you would have died if it weren’t for being
in closeness. I search for closeness in empty hallways.