Grief is a pathetic little bug refusing to be crushed under my persistent boot.
Grief is a winter of sunny skies where the snow melts only to freeze into ice, which is basically harmless,
Except for the one time it breaks my wrist.
The slip is scary, the fall is painful,
And I hope no one sees it,
But probably someone does,
And they feel equal parts pity and embarrassed for me,
But not half as embarrassed as I am for myself.
Grief is the joke I make in a room of friends
Who take it way more seriously than I expect them to.
It is the classmate saying if you watch the video,
You can see the moment JFK’s head explodes,
Casual in its vulgarness,
A casualty I’m unable to laugh off.
Grief is a closed door on karaoke night,
A stop in the hallway with a hesitant shoulder touch
From someone I barely know,
An intrusive and jolting display of love.
It is that one person who says they’re an empath,
A conversation that leaves me only with anger and disgust. I’ve been working really hard on myself
And I feel great,
But every now and then I hear your voice.
We’re together in London,
And I’m wrapped up in you.
For half a second, I’m drowning, knowing
It is in fact not the same as it was,
And no matter how hard I try
The violence of memory will always afflict
That which has yet to be.
I’m waiting for the grief to die with you,
But grief is your spirit:
It refuses to be crushed.
Elizabeth Day is an author, poet, blogger, and playwright from Las Vegas, Nevada. Her work has been featured in The Just Girl Project, Empyrean Literary Magazine, Contemporary Jo, Hey Young Writer, and Fterota Logia. She is a student at Southern Utah University studying English education with a creative writing emphasis and double minors in theater and film. You can find her on Instagram @itsanadventur.
Featured image by Ben Lambert on Unsplash.
