From the Cradle to the Grave
By Kayleigh Kitt

 

Sometimes I want to cry,

to curl in on myself and cradle the child that I was.

When the reaper knocked at my door, I hid, and

Death turned and snatched my loved ones.

We mourn those taken, we carry the guilt, the burden of sorrows,

And we daily breath remembrance in their names,

Sometimes I want to cry, to curl in on myself and cradle the child that I was

 

Kayleigh Kitt lives in South Shropshire, UK with her husband and a disgracefully ageing tabby cat. She started writing in the pandemic and found that it was delightfully addictive and hasn't stopped since. She’s had work published in Flash Fiction North, the Bangor Literary Journal, Meditating Cat Zine and On the High Journal.