roadkill

L says she feels empty. I said I felt like roadkill.

Yeah, that’s what it feels like.

Every time I remember, dream or hear anything about it, I feel like I’ve been run over by a speeding SUV.

Then I spend a few hours picking up my organs — bloody intestines, my kidneys, lungs — scraping off mishmashed parts on the asphalt.

And while piecing my limbs and reconstructing my ribs back together, I remember who I am.

This is when I carefully, ever so carefully, place my pumping heart back in place.

It hits me that it could be worse. So so much worse.

I could have decided to stay and died by inches until my heart turned gray.

I’ll still be the walking dead. Extremely unhappy. And yeah L, pretty empty.

So, as the echoes reverberate and the ripples hit when it is sensitive, it is still better than standing still only to drown in a shallow pool of vomit.

grateful slice: facing the echoes

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