02/02/2024
“Grief has made me old.
My bones have bent and snapped, crumbling to the earth.
Ash and dust.
Stardust. 💫
Saggy and sliding.
My grief shapeshifts into a puddle of dark, cloudy hazy muck.
My bones no longer solid.
My skin no longer staying in a lifted, younger place.
Ragged. Weathered. Worn.
My grief, as giving birth, to my child, has turned me inside out. Raw. Sliced open for all to see, yet so hidden behind the door, it’s a door too heavy and too large to actually open.
No light allowed in.
Just must and mold and dust and ash.”
- me
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