I posted this on Facebook for a hot minute the other day and then took it down because it felt too raw. Now they are gone.
I'm here in the dark, writing again. Whenever the feels get to be too much, the words are like bubbles in a teapot, waiting to boil over. They need to, or I will scream like the fucking pot. The tea is ready. You do not need to drink it - I just need it out of me.
I held a hand. I am dying, they yelled. Please don't leave me.
So I sit, and I hold that hand. I watch their upside-down form in the bed. The little space that appears between their ribs. The dry spot on their ear from when we tried nasal cannula oxygen. The sound of the air and breath and struggle.
I squeeze. They squeeze back. I am here, I say. I am here. I am tethered to this world by you. By this hand, that can squeeze back. One that will not be able to soon.
They know. I know.
I'm scared, they say.
Me too, honey. Me too.