blueberries for you long, bony fingers clutch my arm and i see the hard blue veins in her wrist. rivers of struggle carrying the burden that propels her forward past black coffee mornings and the haze of cigarette smoke. she tries to stop me with her raspy voice, as if strength was conviction and i should feel guilty.

i felt sorry, disconsolate. embarressed that my hands are young and my blood is hidden.

i want to cough like her, long enough to comfort her in the pain that has become normal.
what's it to you?
who go