I carry my dead
like chains around my neck,
wearing me down,
keepig me bent,
aching my shoulders,
arching my back.
I carry their loss
like the finest of jewery,
like shimmering diamonds,
or zaphires, or rubies.
I have no other choice but to do so.
If I'm not proud of my grief,
it overtakes my soul.
But if I don't show it to the world,
it becomes a gaping hole,
an abyss, a void, something I can't avoid,
and that can swallow me whole.
