Posted in Blog

Grief Is A Girl’s Best Friend

Leaving at my own leisure,

I treasure the fresh air,

the silence,

until I realise it is an illusion,

and I am in a revolving door of revolting devotion.

Mary Magdalene,

grieving over Jesus,

and all that could have been,

over and over again,

bracing for breaking,

the way I always do,

because I can’t trust myself,

not to throw myself into damned, dangerous waters.

I can’t swim,

but I love the water,

I can’t let go,

and I love tying myself in knots,

typing myself into turmoil.

I have a sixth sense,

that I often ignore,

an ancient warning,

that has been by my side,

through all of my wars,

but never enters the fight,

at my own insistence.

I know that I’ll cry,

until my inability to swim,

becomes a serious problem,

drowning in drastic renewals,

that always become the same steps,

when the sunlight shines upon them.

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