problematicEuphoria

You told me she had died in a hospital bed With her glasses on So that she could see Death properly And I picked away at my breakfast, Which was pancakes and strawberries, Trying to imagine Her squinting ahead at Him With her dying eyesight The pancakes were dry and store-bought And my plate was a pool of cold syrup And flavorless, Half-eaten strawberries When I had finished, And my hands were stained with the sweet blood And you took my place, Picking away at soggy crumbs.