It's been two weeks since the incident. The block has been quiet since Francis moved away. I guess whatever garbage he was mixed up in left with him. These days my eyes are red and my face is tired. I've been ignoring all of Trev's phone calls and I've hated myself more than anything for it. I should want to hear his voice, I should want to visit and see his face. I should.

As a girl friend, if I can even call myself that anymore, I should want to hear from my boy friend who risked his life protecting me. Someone who I put in danger all on my own.

I should want to see or hear him

But I don't

I can't see him in there

And every time he calls, I see him in there

Deranged look on his face, his soft eyes hardened, anger in its depth

My skin crawls and my stomach aches

I can't hear his voice if it sounds drained and depressed, I can't answer the phone

I can't answer because I wont be able to speak

Like my Mother, I will just be able to cry

And what an odd thing that would be

Me on the other side of the visual so clearly marked into my brain

My entire arm wrapped around the phone cord, crying

Eyes teary, mouth open

No sound escaping, just words I wish I had said on the previous phone call I ignored

I have been plagued with memories of her crying against the kitchen counter top

Back hunched over, head placed on her arm

Sometimes she cried so hard, I thought she may throw up

She would cough and cough, then before she could take a deep breath

She would dry heave

I am not my Mother

Or maybe I am just like her

Maybe much like her, I can't see him in there

Maybe she couldn't bare it either and now I can't bare it

Maybe she wore her heart on her sleeves so now I can't wear it

Maybe I have heard so many of her mistakes, so when niggas step to me I can't hear it

Maybe she let her walls down so mine can go up

Maybe my heart is guarded because hers got cut up

This is why I don't write.

Because when poetry flows from the wounded, you get wounded poetry

This is why I don't write

Because when I can't show my emotions

Poetry shows me...

This is why I can't write.

Fuck.

This is exactly why.