Grief is a fickle thing.

It has

such a different, unidentifiable shape

compared to love, sadness, anger.

I can hold love

in my heart,

cradle it even.

I know what it is.

I can allow myself

to feel sadness,

and nurture it with my tears.

It is familiar.

I can throw my fists in the air

holding my anger by the throat,

feeding it all the more.

I remember its poison in my mouth.

Grief

hits you in so many

different ways,

in so many

different moments,

with so many

different triggers.

I can shove it

in the closet in the back of my mind

and still feel

loss,

while being burdened

by the immense weight of it.

Grief will wrap its hands

around my heart

and squeeze and squeeze

until I am crying blood,

yet

afterwards it will

be tender to me.

My grief will brush my tears aside,

sitting heavy within me,

and then it will be lighter, bearable,

for a while.

As often as I am able

I push it away,

gyving the grief to my will.

This does not last long,

but at least I can breathe for a moment.

I will beat it to the ground

until it is complacent.

I will feel all my grief later,

when I can fall apart

without falling to pieces.

And everything is manageable,

I may even smile.

It is when

I am in a crowed room,

and I have never missed you more.

Grief hangs over my shoulders.

I am alone without you here.

I am in great, great pain.

I am standing here

dying while living all the more,

yet nothing shows except for my

red cracked eyes.

All these people around me

don’t know of your absence

and my grief is killing me,

yet no one even notices.