The antidote is to give love, but the love I give is refused. My love is tainted, it's laced with recent death. It's too much to ask of another. And so, I am alone, and grasping for branches that break and crumble like ancient bones.
So, I go to work with a smile on my face, and I'm pleasant and I chew the shit out of each millisecond that passes, and gulp down my grief with glasses of water, and get pissed if someone asks if I'm ok.
This is never ok. This was unexpected. This was unfair. This was so wrong.
Tomorrow it will be 7 months since I last held John's hand, last kissed his forehead. Tomorrow, it will have been 14 years ago that I last held my friend Cindy, and then held her husband and children after they said goodbye. I am left with ashes and memories... and this sucking chest wound. Yet, I'll get through it somehow... somehow... because I'm the strong one, right? Fuck. If this is strength, then I hope I'm never weak... because it feels like I'm broken inside. And I am so very weary of that sensation.
Before all of you panic and start calling me. I'll come back from it - I always do. I'm with Agatha Christie on this one:
"I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing."
~AC
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