She Who is Grief

Grief. The sense of missing, an opportune lost.

It wasn’t the stain I wore on my shirt that day you laughed at me.

Nor was it the feeling of shame that spewed across my face.

It was that tiny moment after that sent me across the universe looking for hope.

I searched in awe, an incongruence my body forced on me that my mind disagreed upon.

Grief, my distress, my anguish. It was too late as my mouth spit out the words, “that wasn’t me”.

But how it was and totally was, my enemy, my mortal brain…me and only me.

Not I, nor her could have known my fist would propel in anger towards you. My face, a mask, wouldn’t for one moment share my innocence. I betrayed my own being, yet was fully one with who I was.

Grief can only be a dual person living within. Without her, Grief, I wouldn’t be watching your lifeless body from a television screen. Without her, Grief, I wouldn’t completely be myself.

For it is because of her, Grief, I am prescribed a dose of poison to calm her down, a prayer for sedation.

Grief, as loving as she can be, decided against me that day and sent you far away.