The short life of a sliver of grass

For my heroine

I'm not my mom

I like the rush of
the second after
the hello

as we wait for
a smile, grimace,
blank stare
or love.

The feelings
all the same
in the end.

I like the fear of
the possibility of falling off
and breaking a bone.
Or my life.

I like the taste
and the burn of
Jack slowly trickling into my body,
quickly throwing me into a world of blurry colors and non existent lines.

I love the silence
of the world
when I sit
and burn one with the ghost of Bob.

I love
the green stain on my white socks
and my shorts
left behind forever, by grass that will be dead in a month.

I'm not my mom.
I want to see what she didn't see.
I want to love longer than she.
I want to breathe the air across the sea she never crossed.

I'm not my mom.
And I hope one day she'll understand.
So i don't have to hear her cry.

Because I'm not afraid to live, and she's afraid i'll die.