Losing Sight

You were the first person

I reached towards,

A single, shaking arm

Plunged into the thick

Fog of fresh grief.

You pulled me through

The first awful snow,

The first month on Earth

Without her;

You pulled me through

Blunt smoke in a strangers

Bedroom, ash covering

Bedspreads (which we would

Soon spread our bodies against).

You pulled me through

A dissociative dream that was

Spring semester;

Part of me fears

I will be a Junior forever.

You pulled me through

Long class lectures

And unfamiliar hallways.

You pulled me through

Relationships and wreckage,

Much of which, I’ll admit,

I created.

You grasped the horns

Of this life (a few too many times)

With all of your might,

Until that last night.

Until you were pulled

(A bit too deep)

Into the diseased drugs

Clouding our hometown.

I’m so glad I got out

Alive.

(I’m so sorry I didn’t

Have the strength

To pull you through).

Devoured

I just thought you should know

She twists every story into

Something you’d devour

Faster than a piping pretzel.

I thought you deserved to know

She doesn’t just crack us like eggs,

She has left half a dozen of us

To rot with our shells shattered.

I thought you deserved a warning:

If you don’t run for the exit now,

She will toss you out along with

The leftovers from two weeks ago,

The other ones she forgot about.

Maggie Bowyer (they/them/theirs) is a poet and the author of The Whole Story (Margaret Bowyer, 2020) and When I Bleed: Poems about Endometriosis (2021). They are a blogger and essayist with a focus on Endometriosis and chronic pain. They have been featured in Germ Magazine, Detour Ahead, Poetry 365, and others. They were the Editor-in-Chief of The Lariat Newspaper, a quarter-finalist in Brave New Voices 2016, and were a Marilyn Miller Poet Laureate.


Image by Dietmar Rabich / Wikimedia Commons / “Kerze — 2021 — 5491” / CC BY-SA 4.0

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