she was dying
not from disease
it was much more
invasive than that
there is no vaccine for pain
no vaccine for the insecurity
he bred inside her
turning her into a genetic modification
of her former self
her soul is now broken ribs
from steel-toe boots
no vaccine for immortal memories
she wished would expire
memories as long as those
remembered by ancient gods
who watch as their creations die
centuries old rubble
fade to dust with each sunset
her memories are canned goods
created for disasters
made to last until the can is opened
unnaturally preserved life oozing
from the cut metal
she was dying by the inch
dying
from the fist that blackened
her eye five years ago
just after he proposed to her
dying
from the lover who told her
her tits were too small
dying
from memories of the child
who slipped from her womb
still
unmoved by life’s promises
dying
from the canned love
preserved in salt and bitterness
there is no vaccine for betrayal
no vaccine to heal the cut wrists
she sees the sun rise tomorrow
but life is only memories in a can
preserved for the dying soul
