Grief

Every few hours my body is transformed by grief. 

My insides liquify and disappear completely, replaced by aching sobs. I wretch. 

My face is disfigured. 

It’s angry, red, swollen, wet, almost unrecognisable in its anguish. 

My eyes meet those in the mirror and I dissolve all over again. 

I cannot face her. 

My grief feels wrong. 

Stolen and shameful - to be displayed only in private. 

My loss is not a loss, it is a choice. 

But a choice doesn’t feel like one when all the choices are wrong. The decision is made, was made, there are no options. 

Pick your biggest regret. 

I am angry with my grief. 

I loathe her, I resent her, I bury her deep. 

I cannot keep her contained. 

She is wild and violent and angry too, I don’t blame her. 

I want to hold her gently, nourish her, give her space to breathe. 

I cannot. 

My fate was sealed with a simple line as the ink stuck desperately chasing the control. I am in shock. 

My body has failed me yet there is a beauty in the magic it has created. A heartbeat. 

I will fill my veins with poison. 

There is too much and it is all too much and it spills over uncontrollably when I am not looking. 

I am mother, I breathe life, death and consciousness. 

I place no blame or guilt, but I am angry. 

My womb soon to be bleeding alongside my heart. 

I am sick. 

I am exhausted. 

I do not want this. 

Yet, when it is over will I yearn for it back?

My loss feels no less because it is a choice, but it does feel lonelier. I will bleed, I will hurt, I will cry. 

My grief, she dances within me.