The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
I am a master, I have perfected it.
Loss is life, life is losing,
Bitten bullets scatter red of loved ones.
I lose the keys to my house some days,
Someone’s loved one is killed every other.
An eye for an eye is another loss, a lose-lose with no going back.
I wonder if He is disappointed by all that we lose,
And I worry that He doesn’t think I’ve lost enough.
The bipolar woman next door lost to Cancer,
I lost a patch of skin to concrete flooring.
Families lost their homes to a fire,
I discovered the death of a friend through a tweet.
When there is no loss, there is memory of loss.
Articles with no name but a blurred picture,
A reminder of the loss of life I’ve long accepted.
The scar of a machete cutting skin seeming whiter,
Reminding me of how easy the blade sliced through my foot.
Long scar, short scars, future scars, imaginary scars.
Inevitable loss, mastered yet still unprepared,
No longer resisting with only a tiredness when it approaches.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master,
But you’ll wish you hadn’t when you do.