The Trade

Her last breath for grief

Her last exhalation for your devout participation in my life.

I met you when my mother died on November 9th and have known you for a month. I find your presence insufferable. The lurking nature of your personality vile. 

Your generally bored countenance dissolves into glee if you smell normalcy. Your cloud of confusion, division and fatigue puff like an overly sweet pastry in me.

Mayhem is your desired effect, is it not? Imposing common interaction with contemptuous laced thought? You dispense granular perplexity and flimsy derision do you not?

You exist strictly for yourself and relish the inertia you wield upon my wounded heart. I despise you as I despise those for whom existence is purely their whim, their notion, their decried “cool” navel gazing demand to risk nothing.

You are not heartache, pain, misery or woe. You’re much more and solidly so. You callously know the form for the blow and wield this with no thought for a soul. 

I predict these footprints on life’s perimeter shall derive less meaning for me, despite your greater stench and will to be. I shall reduce you to a known cacophony of anxiety and be free.

I see you grief. 

I know your power. 

And I know the hour, in God’s time, will build through you a tender memorial for me.

©️2025 Lisa Blume. All rights reserved.