Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

33. a ghost in the throat

the pain of growing up

was the sprain of your calves

and the strain of your bones.

was the transformed moraine of your flesh grain

into this bizarre kid-grownup preordain.

was the hurricane inside your veins

as you crawled in your mama's arms

and let her pressed a kiss against your temples

and trawled her fingers through your hair,

tucking your head under her chin.

your windpipe tightened as you balled

into your mama's tight embrace,

and you tried not to bawl your eyes out

while you listened to the small, muted beats

of her heart, drawing you asleep.

regrets were only temporary novocaine,

but what would you give to return to the plain plane

you once disdain.

every time you had to leave home again,

your body ached — your arms, your shoulders, your legs.

begging for just another day

in this isolated paradise

of childhood and innocence.

even enclosed within this miniature cut-off haven terrain

in your mama's arms,

you were contained far from reality,

refrained by the harsh, unkind world

and restrained against the merciless flow of time.

yet the sustained, quiet ache remained.

the pain of growing up never waned.

instead, it made a home in your brain

and gnawed alive the longer you remained.