Grief is a bag of shit.

Grief is just this bag of shit I carry around…
I wish I could somehow make this feel fair… this jar of ashes is in no way a fair trade for the future you should have had.
And as I listen to the wind blow and feel the air grow colder, I watch the colors change in the sky, and watch the orange deepen to red and fade to an inky blue.
The air is cool and I can feel it in my lungs as I close my eyes and drink it in.

That sigh, rattles as if through old paper, and I feel my lungs shrink from my rib cage…
And I feel fragile
Like some hollow, dry, ancient statue.

And I wonder if I cut myself open, if I would even bleed.
And somehow that sensation of falling backwards is so familiar

To shatter into jagged shards.
And I hope and want and pray for it to be different.
For my son to be a man again… and not just a pile of memories
And you try to put something into language
A longing and a hunger that has no name
And can’t be satisfied…
To put into words:
A lifeline
To throw and hope that someone will grab onto it
And haul you in.
Or simply whisper to you
That it is cold
That it is dark
And please come inside.
But the words are not enough to wrap around me like a blanket
Or to stroke my head
And the words are like so many tears that have fallen
And grief is a bag of shit.


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