Don't Call Me Cute


When I lean over to pull up my socks,  it takes everything I’ve got.  I can only do that one thing. Then I have to rest.


You come in one after the other, in your scrubs, and you call me mama and honey and sweetie pie… euthanizing my life from the yowling, wounded  cat that it was to what it is now —  food coming in, shit going out.


Nothing makes sense. Nothing helps. And nothing but nine decades of habit and  harsh continuing animates my lungs, cups my fingers around the glass of water you say I have to drink.


Don’t call me cute.


The furniture keeps moving. Years switch places. And my home is no longer my own.


Do not call me cute.

I’ve hit the lottery of losses. And I am in pain that would break you in half.

  • White Facebook Icon
  • White Instagram Icon
  • White Twitter Icon

© Tina Lear | Design by A Dying Art Company Ltd.

  • medium_edited