Writing a Poem on My Phone

6 am. Clouds
swallow the sun, the room
floods in darkness.
 
I will have the best day
I am capable of.
Yesterday
 
I shook and
sobbed my grief, then
went about my day.
 
The morning is a medicated haze.
Pain still pokes its head
through the fog.
 
I scratch a sore
and make it bleed,
remember the flashing red spots
 
of the ambulance,
the darkly chalky taste
of charcoal.
 
I can't cover up the holes
that lead to the sight
of bone and marrow.
 
My only pleasure,
to sit here in silence,
tapping out the words of this poem.