Something is in my chest.
Not Jesus, not my heart, but something else.
The doctors can't see it.
It's scientific not there.
But I can still feel it there.
Because for me it is truly and horrendously there.
It sits there.
It stretches and grows.
It coils around my lungs, tightening with each breath I take.
It's empty.
Simply a void.
It's full.
Simply dripping with emotion.
It can't make up it's mind.
Sometimes it's invisible.
It hides, allowing me to forget it's presence.
But then it strikes, dangerous and unforgiving.
It rips and tears and shreds.
It engulfs.
It engulfs me.
I am crippled by it.
And yet I can dance.
I am destroyed by it.
And yet I can sing.
I am emptied by it.
And yet I can still laugh.
And it doesn't go away.
This is me not quite understanding my grief or the thing in my chest.
YOU ARE READING
Death and its Grievers.
Poetrysome are sad, others not so much. it's taken me some time to publish these, and more will probably be coming. ∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆ @ 2017. All rights reserved. All content is property of Cassandra Kirone.
