Mourning What I Barely Had, Flushed

"Mourning What I Barley Had, Flushed" || Hippocampus Magazine 

I could not catch you. I would have lain down and tried to hold on to you for seven more months, if I had known you were coming then. I’m grateful for my only glimpse of you, a tender translucent red blood clot at the bottom back of the toilet. I called your dad screaming into the phone that I had tried to fish you out, before you descended into an ending that was less that what you deserved.

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