I have yet to meet
a word without
an image. Of a young man with
white sclera. Drunken to
a hint of red. So I let
those moments be. In first person
singular. Staying present: I am. Aware
of the narrow confines
holding me as separate from
him. And her. Though we all dance the same
I can’t help but
regret the images I never
read in black and blue ink. A
man with teal eyeliner, a woman
in army-grade. Grief – the truest form of
sorry. For the days you could
have cherished. For the times you’ll never
relish. In your yearbook, I
wrote ‘H.A.G.S’ or something of the sort.
Derogatory. In that I never
took a minute to paint
color in my note – though you deserved.
A rainbow and parade. And strobing
lights of celebration. Now I see
black body bags and
In the reflection of red and blue. Beams,
for the tone of strobing lights reminds me.
Own the choices we made.
To go out. Or come out. I can’t
claim the rights. Of a story
that leads to your
ending. I once held
a door to a classroom to let you enter.
Before me. Not knowing
the pain I would feel. Standing
for a moment in a room of your loss.
The doctor said she would live in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair, crippled by pain; that was thirteen years ago. Instead, Mirissa D. Price is a 2019 DMD candidate at Harvard School of Dental Medicine, spreading pain-free smiles, writing through her nights, and, once again, walking through her days. She is a Huffington Post blogger and emerging writer with publications in Yellow Chair Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Tuck Magazine. Follow Mirissa’s writing at https://mirissaprice.wordpress.com/.