Those who lay invisible

By Morgana Moore

Eight weeks into isolation,

and I’m contemplating the deflating

of my soul, and the numbness of

feeling too flat to breathe.


It’s not a big ask to stay at home,

This should be easy…


And yet


Here I am

Lying in bed until three pm,

surrounded by a halo of crumbs

and disappointment

unable to move or care

as I watch my responsibilities

mount higher and higher


I look at the small framed picture of you.

It’s getting harder to not think of you constantly


I’m glad you’re not here to see this.

You’d have little sympathy for those

finally sharing your plight,

completely oblivious to the wider world:

‘I’ve been indoors for days’

‘I haven’t spoken to a soul in weeks’


Finally, we’re experiencing what millions

Live with, day in, day out.


If you were still here,

You’d laugh,

How ironic it all is.


Instead of sharing your thoughts

you stay silent

with only my imagination

to fill your mouth with words.


We keep you in a small cardboard tube,

because we couldn’t decide on a fancy urn.

they never were your style anyway.


For once

i’m grateful you’re gone.

Imagine being sick and fighting for so long,

Only to die of a virus.


Morgana Moore (she/her) is a UK based short fiction writer interested in speculative fiction, the oddities of the human experience, and personal identity. She is the editor-in-chief of @fatcatmagazine where she publishes flash fiction submissions online. You can find her writing featured in @_Re_side_ and forthcoming in @perhappened and @_IdleInk_. To keep up to date with her work, you can find her on twitter @morgana_moore.

This piece is a part of DISTANCED 2.0.

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