Grief Written

If I showed you my bruises settled beneath my skin, Would you stroke them lovingly and whisper words to ease the pain? Or would walk away? Because it's hard to love a girl  who's  been  stained .

She kissed him like she was drowning,  And his lips were the air. She held onto him like he was her life preserver, And she was lost at sea. Little did she know he was the water filling her lungs, And he was the tide pulling her under.   He wasn't saving her, he was killing her. But she didn't know the difference, between swimming and drowning. All her lovers taught her it was the same thing.

I wonder if in the future, When someone stops you on the street, and asks how I am, If you'll know the answer. If not, I wonder if you'll wonder  whether I still love watermelon gum and still insist on blowing bubbles. Whether I still bite my lip when I'm trying not to smile. Or if still I write poetry. Will you wonder if I still sing loudly as I get ready? And do I still stick my tongue out childishly? Am I still afraid of trusting? Do I still cry in my car? I wonder if in the future, When someone stops you on the street, and asks how I am, If you'll know how I am. And if you don't I hope you wonder about me, the way I wonder about you

You said, "He did so many things to hurt you, I don't understand how you can love him." And for once in my life, I had no words. My pen was stilled, the river of words that usually flow across my tongue ran dry. How could I explain it to you? How could I explain that I found it easier to love him as he hurt me. Like the cuts let the love in. And the bruises made me more sensitive to his touch. The bad times made the good times seem glorious. And that's something I'll never be able to explain to you, I can't even explain it to myself. But one of my favorite authors summed it up perfectly "we accept the love we think we deserve." And I'll never deserve you.

"How are you?" they ask. They always ask that. It's become a standard greeting, a standard question. It's lost its significance. No one really stops to think about what they're really asking. How are you? I usually give a standard response to the standard question. My lips shape the word, or my fingers type the four letter word. Okay. Because what else am I supposed to say? They don't really care how I am. They're just starting conversation. It's an unwritten rule that you must lie. You grit your teeth, hold back the tears, and give your standardized response.  I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm alright. These are the responses that are expected if you can't give an honest "I'm doing swell how about yourself?"  Because you can't let them know that you're falling apart. You can't let them know that your heart hurts, that your lungs ache, or that sometimes you just wish that you could disappear. Vanish. Poof. I can't le