Flood Season
My heart holds all of my firsts.
The first breath of life,
the first cry cracking out of my lungs.
It holds the rupture of a dam my parents tripwired,
so the flood has always won.
The guttural scream of you and sixteen,
a ruthless rise in your grip for the ripest fruit.
I was only trying to hold on.
To hold on to innocence like the sun prying
at time on the horizon just to catch a
glimpse of the moon.
My heart holds all of my firsts,
the shushed cries and soiled flesh
I did not pray or.
God crying in December’s fog
as you abandon me in winter’s thaw.
You are forgetful,
but my heart remembers all.
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