The man who tried to shoot my mother and I is now dying of cancer. She visits him every night. But I can’t forget the echo of the gun or how fast my heart beat. I can’t erase the smell of liquor on his breath or the taillights of my mother as she, without me, drove off and left. I can’t un-feel the grass on my soles or the cool breeze of that March. I can’t unhear how he said my name in the tone of a man ready to die. I can’t unsee the gun pointed towards my face, then at his, as he noticed the tears in my eyes. He’s dying of cancer, and she visits him every night. But I’ve been living with his death ever since the incident, the one she never admits.
About the Creator
Erica Scott
A young adult, self-proclaimed poet from Florida who writes from a place of uncertainty, just hoping to one day reach the depths of someone else's heart besides her own.
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Just a Sip
I watched a dog walk into a coffee shop today, and I know it sounds strange, but I wondered if the smell of steamed milk reminded him of past lovers, if chai tea reminded him of early morning kisses. He looked into my eyes for a split second, and I could have sworn he sensed it - my fear of loving you. The fear I try to contain by sitting in little shops, writing away memories as if they were mine to keep forever. Silly of me. As silly as a dog in a coffee shop, I suppose. Though both things happened today. So, I’ll write again tomorrow in hopes you’ll slip away with each sip.
By Erica Scott11 months ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Painful, Poignant ... I feel it. 👏