Empathy is not a thought process.

Nor a knowldge,

understanding,

or a gathering of data

It isn't in my eyes or my ears.

I cannot find it in my brain.

Rather, empathy is a breathing, beautiful thing

That lives in my chest

cradled in slimy, wet guts.

Emaothy is a large, ugly bird that I can feel flapping and crawling around

It's heartbeat presses against mine

it is a heavy and shifting thing.

I feel pregnant when I see someone cry.

As the bird does flips in my belly.

What is born of this snake,

with its tail in its mouth,

will be my baby.

This deformity will be my legacy.

Empathy is not meant to be a comfortable thing.

She comes with barbs and nausea.

and I love her still.

I understand

cognitively.

When I am gone,

she too.

Will disappear,

in a flash of blue light

Still.

When I feel her move,

I have my doubts.

I have reservations.

I feel

rather than think

that she will be buried with me.

and she will sit

alone,

in the place of my ribcage

nesting and asleep.

Until long after my bones turn to dust.

She will stay.

She will wait.

Six feet under,

in the dark

for millennia.

She will wait

much longer.

If she needs to.