EMMA RHODES

Decompress / Decompose

The day my mother died I was already crying
about my best friend, who also died or her parents 
weren’t around. I’ve been practicing since childhood —
scripted grief from the future to fall asleep at night. 
I make myself cry until I’m too swollen to care 
who’s here or not. Decompose, I mistakenly said tonight,
instead of decompress. I went home, wrapped myself in cotton, 
comfortable enough to sleep. I dug a bed 
under my favourite witch-tree in the park. 
I didn’t think about anyone.