He used to twirl his hair and suck his thumb,
holding the stuffy close to his chest -
the fur that used to be fluffy now matted,
too many hugs and washes to count.
Held so tight, the matching one in my arms;
there had to be two, because one always
had to smell like Mom.
The same musky perfume I’ve worn since he was born.
Angel and Demon.
But now the bed is cold and undisturbed.
The soft night light hits the spot where he should have laid,
illuminating a hollow, I cannot follow.
The same stuffy still heavy in my arms,
always searching for its twin.
About the Creator
Eliara Rae
I write from the fire I survived.
I turn trauma into art, silence into music, and healing into something you can feel in your bones.
Songwriter, survivor, storyteller. If you’ve lived through the dark, you’ll find pieces of yourself here.
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