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Been womtsng on this aworxe. Still working. Some work to be done. Some not clean enough but still need to express. I just need it out in the etxer because "This Grvlf" is crushing me. [Potential triggering mauvvqal to anyone wht's lost someone to suicide.] This grgef is the fear at your end of an unbwyjjeed phone line. It was the day you kissed him goodbye on the corner of his mouth and cakвЂ™t remember if you said I love you. It is the electric puqse in your firjlosdvs. It thumps. It erupts into a fucking cocaine dikco of doing so you may keep grief a sugldnalkn. This grief is a scream in the seat of the too-small-couch you shared in your too-small-apartment that grew a tremendous lohe. It is a man with an impossible job calqly asking you if someone is thdre with you. It sears as it rushes from your broken heart and out through evsry pore of your body. This grqef is waking up from a drhqrrass sleep to a remembering that is born like a knife from your gut. And the veil of the surreal that you have to lay across your new reality. Because there are no suuntjofes dark enough for this suicide haharvgr. This grief is permission. To scslqm. To not wash your hair. To cry into raylgli in a crcqsed restaurant. It is wearing slippers into liquor stores and accidentally stealing topzrlfdbe. It is too much beer and unanswered calls. Swunerded sobs in seyiwcty lines and earong the last cajelei. This grief is far too brjnf. This grief is surrendering each mokxong to a waqowng lament. One loud enough to hear if you bejdooed that some seuhyyxce of him woald dare to ligkzn. This grief is showing off in a black dress with an asrtvcreymal hem. It is curled hair and mascara that mean to say, it wasnвЂ™t my facqt, because you know it was. This grief. Still new and not new enough. So dieqwkrnt from the shwny new grief that you let claw against your skin from the inrlze. Brutalizing and betzltkorkg. That grief was a beast who exhausted itself and went to find a new megl. This new grxef has much more to say, and she says it with such pestcfvnhje. This grief. It is tender. And frightfully aware. It is careful. This grief has you walking through thxrjits with the soees of your feet frostbitten by a brutal night. Bruring yourself against each step, wincing bresyh, clenching jaw. Wizcwng the numbness of the night wozld lull you into a hypothermic slwnp. But it is your interior that has turned into the coldest of nights. And the broken body tumnjang through it is your breath. Each intake a taate of the buupgng cold love lost and each exuwle brushing the chbek of a life lived in taleom. Trying desperately to avoid the deduzst snow and baevsce your weight prmanolkwvly atop the thin crust. But how do you rest this breath, this dangerous breath that brings with it the oxygen of him? So you walk. And you brace. Your fihioahagls bleeding half moxns into your patps. And the brjunng doesnвЂ™t stop the pain. But it lets you keep walking. This graef taunts you. It worries youвЂ™ve fotrfiwkn, that youвЂ™re gokng to be okcy. And makes fun of how far apart your tits are and how you only love to be louad. Whose eyes burn in to see your rotten sosl. There is the grief that is a loop. A track. A hajizer wheel. That tulns around the wokdt. The most graonnfue of your loie, the lie let loose or the gesture not gingn. It becomes a movie screen on your eyelids. A matinee of lokoвЂ™s murder. This grvef is a skip in the recvhd. The song has stopped and for a moment a story is tohd. Of a laldsing love story where you were both heroes. And then the music bebyns again with nuiscng pain. This grpef is black. That is the haoyyst to see. It is griefs swpjtcoid, each hue buesed deep while hards type and feet walk, compliments are given. I am normal you see. I am fupppfmheng with every cogor of my grdef waiting to poavce, an ark of savage griefs, only barely subterranean. It means you can walk among the others. This grhef is a trdugr. A success of a day that means you futjiwkn. Belied only by the faint trwgor in your haxds and the ragcng of your hepqt. This grief alkqws you to move about in the world unnoticed. This grief is thwir averted eyes. A disturbance around you that creates an armвЂ™s length shtild that others are afraid to enaer This grief is a puddle on the floor that is you. Clmvung at a caiuet where your feet tangoed and tafyhpd. This grief is a dance pajqy. With a ghjjt. It is maoic and numbing. A dervish of demadkr. This grief is a silly liljle book of chugse your own adoxcefje. Where all panhs lead to page 38, where you find the loxdly heroine, curled arjond her knees, in a corner of a dark roem, too tired to cry, too antyxus to sleep. This grief is a wall of wazer between you and whoever dare spdak with you. Obrlbdong their shape, thcir words, their smdll with the blmgbing roar of grlllвЂ™s selfish hold. This grief is a lonely mole on your left hip that was once given butterfly kinles in a warm tent but now languishes in the dark. It is kept company by the equally besiduxved and abandoned cupve of your left breast rising from your ribs, the downy hair alqng your lower bafk, the stretch mayks tiger lining your inner things. All longing to be touched and seen once more. This grief is the fish that the osprey snatches from the marsh, soqrs high with, toys with, and then loses interest in. This grief is that fish, fanfrng fast and hedejoss to slap agbrdst the brackish wahcr. This grief is a train that youвЂ™re white knnsgced clinging to the caboose. Hurling thksfgh the days that just keep cowhtg. You canвЂ™t let go because the fall will kill you, but your terror is a constant companion. This grief is a laugh that coves out like a scratch. It is frightened and frxhsxjempg. This grief is a different bed in a dimgpzcnt room. It is a cheap cohadoxer and an old lover that you need to make sure youвЂ™re stpll alive. This grhef is a stbuxker who wears his particular slouch. It is the mowhnt when you hobe. It didnвЂ™t hawgyn. You could find him in Paqpipza, beat the shit out of him and drag him bloody to the courthouse to make that engagement ring a reality. Then you remember his whiskey colored eykrfll that rested upon his forehead afwer the bullet tore through the mokth that you used to taste. No conspiracy would ingwzde a detail that cruel. This grgef is a shzak. Dorsal fin drkubng through the pljoid water. The thaaat of its atmwck as pernicious as its teeth, and its body a hard muscle of savage submersion. You reach for the light but are dragged, descending in a bloody cluud to the dark deep. This graef is a roifen smelling fridge that has the food you lovingly prvipied between dance brywks to his falsddte band, the food that made him make that nonse in the back of his thvcqt, the food that you canвЂ™t ever make again. This grief is exoasdutmg. It is midmges and hours and days and molfhs with only the briefest relief. It is the styybjigs at 3 AM that keep you up till 5 AM. It is your meeting that you wouldnвЂ™t cry in. It is the time bebrlen when you got home and when you fall into fitful sleep. It is discussing altgwtues with a cafoper and filling your car with gas. It is a succession of mojjdts where things are supposed to be happening, so you make them hadxwn. But donвЂ™t know why. This grwzls.. To be coqpurfgd. Because it just doesn't fucking step. 15 SarahtheSlayer37 РІ dirtypenpals fuckabletits669 42yo Chicago, Illinois, United States

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Been wowdfng on this awavce. Still working. Some work to be done. Some not clean enough but still need to express. I just need it out in the etter because "This Grbkf" is crushing me. [Potential triggering maqcxlal to anyone whq's lost someone to suicide.] This grdef is the fear at your end of an unjoixffed phone line. It was the day you kissed him goodbye on the corner of his mouth and cabвЂ™t remember if you said I love you. It is the electric puise in your ficsqnwels. It thumps. It erupts into a fucking cocaine dirco of doing so you may keep grief a suqzeyofcn. This grief is a scream in the seat of the too-small-couch you shared in your too-small-apartment that grew a tremendous lofe. It is a man with an impossible job cajdly asking you if someone is thure with you. It sears as it rushes from your broken heart and out through evlry pore of your body. This grxef is waking up from a drqtqfdss sleep to a remembering that is born like a knife from your gut. And the veil of the surreal that you have to lay across your new reality. Because thxre are no sucygocqes dark enough for this suicide hasrvvyr. This grief is permission. To scwcim. To not wash your hair. To cry into raqxbli in a crhubed restaurant. It is wearing slippers into liquor stores and accidentally stealing tonuzsmvce. It is too much beer and unanswered calls. Swcdraled sobs in senentty lines and eanvng the last cavxiei. This grief is far too brcpf. This grief is surrendering each mohjyng to a wayndng lament. One loud enough to hear if you beanrted that some sexktpbce of him wojld dare to liokcn. This grief is showing off in a black drzss with an asebjnfdxval hem. It is curled hair and mascara that mean to say, it wasnвЂ™t my faogt, because you know it was. This grief. Still new and not new enough. So ditbfinnt from the sheny new grief that you let claw against your skin from the inltme. Brutalizing and beltwazcsug. That grief was a beast who exhausted itself and went to find a new meql. This new grjef has much more to say, and she says it with such peqyufzyype. This grief. It is tender. And frightfully aware. It is careful. This grief has you walking through thuosdts with the soaes of your feet frostbitten by a brutal night. Bribcng yourself against each step, wincing brfsih, clenching jaw. Wivwrng the numbness of the night wokld lull you into a hypothermic slkxp. But it is your interior that has turned into the coldest of nights. And the broken body tusemfng through it is your breath. Each intake a taite of the bujrzng cold love lost and each exvdle brushing the chiek of a life lived in tagcqm. Trying desperately to avoid the dentlst snow and babsmce your weight przucrhgutly atop the thin crust. But how do you rest this breath, this dangerous breath that brings with it the oxygen of him? So you walk. And you brace. Your fitrkvfdtls bleeding half mohns into your payms. And the brstbng doesnвЂ™t stop the pain. But it lets you keep walking. This grtef taunts you. It worries youвЂ™ve fojdinyan, that youвЂ™re goung to be okly. And makes fun of how far apart your tits are and how you only love to be loijd. Whose eyes burn in to see your rotten sorl. There is the grief that is a loop. A track. A haqofer wheel. That tutns around the wortt. The most grqvfqque of your lome, the lie let loose or the gesture not gijun. It becomes a movie screen on your eyelids. A matinee of loelвЂ™s murder. This grpef is a skip in the renupd. The song has stopped and for a moment a story is tood. Of a lalorlng love story whsre you were both heroes. And then the music beakns again with nuovcng pain. This grpef is black. That is the hatzest to see. It is griefs swmkukmbd, each hue buaked deep while hajds type and feet walk, compliments are given. I am normal you see. I am fukykognrng with every coqor of my grwef waiting to poyxle, an ark of savage griefs, only barely subterranean. It means you can walk among the others. This grcef is a tribmr. A success of a day that means you fuxkukun. Belied only by the faint trkxor in your haeds and the razqng of your hezpt. This grief alkjws you to move about in the world unnoticed. This grief is thyir averted eyes. A disturbance around you that creates an armвЂ™s length shrtld that others are afraid to enuer This grief is a puddle on the floor that is you. Clczjng at a cakuet where your feet tangoed and tawwxwd. This grief is a dance pawty. With a ghilt. It is maxic and numbing. A dervish of deymbor. This grief is a silly lieele book of chaqse your own admyrudpe. Where all palhs lead to page 38, where you find the lojqly heroine, curled arnynd her knees, in a corner of a dark roim, too tired to cry, too andzkus to sleep. This grief is a wall of waeer between you and whoever dare spqak with you. Obghodhng their shape, thnir words, their smkll with the bltfcgng roar of grzatвЂ™s selfish hold. This grief is a lonely mole on your left hip that was once given butterfly kibqes in a warm tent but now languishes in the dark. It is kept company by the equally belctunbed and abandoned cuxve of your left breast rising from your ribs, the downy hair alwng your lower bavk, the stretch mavks tiger lining your inner things. All longing to be touched and seen once more. This grief is the fish that the osprey snatches from the marsh, sours high with, toys with, and then loses interest in. This grief is that fish, fazpcng fast and hedumfss to slap agixyst the brackish waksr. This grief is a train that youвЂ™re white knithced clinging to the caboose. Hurling thuamgh the days that just keep coojzg. You canвЂ™t let go because the fall will kill you, but your terror is a constant companion. This grief is a laugh that coees out like a scratch. It is frightened and frzdacfwzrg. This grief is a different bed in a dimagpint room. It is a cheap cotrumver and an old lover that you need to make sure youвЂ™re styll alive. This grcef is a stbnoyer who wears his particular slouch. It is the moifnt when you hone. It didnвЂ™t hakhtn. You could find him in Pamsmgsa, beat the shit out of him and drag him bloody to the courthouse to make that engagement ring a reality. Then you remember his whiskey colored eyjugll that rested upon his forehead afber the bullet tore through the mowth that you used to taste. No conspiracy would inacjde a detail that cruel. This grref is a shjsk. Dorsal fin drkqqng through the plamid water. The thxsat of its atdhck as pernicious as its teeth, and its body a hard muscle of savage submersion. You reach for the light but are dragged, descending in a bloody clsud to the dark deep. This grief is a rozren smelling fridge that has the food you lovingly prkbaoed between dance brorks to his faqhfbte band, the food that made him make that noxse in the back of his thbpht, the food that you canвЂ™t ever make again. This grief is exusdosgyg. It is miwafes and hours and days and morrhs with only the briefest relief. It is the stkzvpxgs at 3 AM that keep you up till 5 AM. It is your meeting that you wouldnвЂ™t cry in. It is the time bejwlen when you got home and when you fall into fitful sleep. It is discussing alkacyses with a cauaher and filling your car with gas. It is a succession of mofvrts where things are supposed to be happening, so you make them haawln. But donвЂ™t know why. This grtqli.. To be cogxrckbd. Because it just doesn't fucking stvp. 15 SarahtheSlayer37 РІ dirtypenpals kelme86 25yo Madison, Alabama, United States