in this one – the light erupts

& so I say: alright,
maybe we are the kids time
did not want. Our parent’s grief
tied into tight little bundles &
starving for light.

Maybe, we are the ones who placed
the hunger there. Tell me it means
something other than inevitable &
that when I wake

I will not find my ancestors
shadows frowning from my

closet. Tell me anything
other than the truth &
maybe I’ll love you for it.

You’ve heard this story before–
know grief like the back of your
hand, so

prove it.

Watch the shadows in the closet
long enough to realize you are one
& that these slow hands will not
save you.

By Mary Sims

Mary is an 18-year-old aspiring poet and writer who has recently been published in Kingdoms of the Wild, Moonchild Magazine, Mooky Chick, and Anti-Heroin Chic. She is currently working towards earning her degree in English, and spends her days dreaming of writing beloved poetry and living in the mountains with her friends and family close by. Find Mary on Twitter @rhymesofblue