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you are not alone
my story
I've not been touched just once by grief.
It is a fundamentally clear rite of passage for being alive to experience this devastating and heart shattering part of living. That's one of the beautiful parts about it though-- we're not alone, or we don't have to be. It doesn't have to be taboo, everyone shares varying stories and connections to grief. My recent miscarriage has left me raw with a never ending, undulating ache that makes me want to turn to stone or just break into crumbles and bits that will never quite find their way back together again.
I write poems to keep track of my breath. I share poems to release parts of me into the wind. I read and listen to other's stories and poems to keep crying so I don't get too brittle, dry up and blow away. It feels small but this is my offering. To write and be read, to hold and be held, to share and to listen. To sit quietly in some sort of sacred silence with you when the feelings rush out like an unwanted virus. Or share glances as we lacquer another coating on our skin to keep going.
Let's cry, remember, honor, disassociate, distract, laugh, grow, romanticize, hold and release something somehow or other. Together.
You were my daydream interrupted--
and I prayed
under blankets and storm clouds
that the bad dreams
wouldn't take you away.
As if malevolent little entities
wanted to play and
I saw blood when I was dry.
You weren't a day dream
but you were just stopping by,
couldn't stay.
I made so many plans
but that didn't matter.
I feel wrong inside every shattered remain.
Something wrong happened.
Is something wrong with me?
Feels so wrong to move on
and feel happy again.
In my wrongness I wake,
each new day topsier and turvier.
stages
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