15

This was a new kind of hurt

Not constant or regular

The kind that swooped in and out

Embezzled the air from my lungs

The kind of hurt that came in ripples

Fading away eventually

But not before spreading

And at 15 I could not run my fingers through my hair

Without clumps falling out into my palms

Or the floor or the table or the bed

And everytime I would smoke a cigarette

I would visualize the tar and the cancer filling my body

Because somehow it made it all better

My mama would never believe me if I told her

And my friends wouldn't know how to help me

And the boy calling me every night pretending he loved me

Would only get angry

I could feel bits and pieces of myself chipping away

Corroding

As an ocean of loss washed over me

Again and again and again.