I tell people that I am an open book, but a book that needs translating,
because it’s easier than explaining why the ink has run and the pages are torn.
I just don’t let them look.
“The book is open…” I say
“But avert your eyes.”
They won’t understand.
I won’t know how to tell them.
I got lost in the forest last night,
just as the sun decided she had seen enough,
and tucked herself up into bed,
I was baited by dark, dramatic branches,
that all looked the same.
“Where am I going?”
is such an eternal question for me,
in a way that unsettles me,
because I don’t think I will ever have a satisfactory answer.
I used to wear pretty, pure dresses on a Sunday,
but I have been Grief’s girl for so long,
that god struggles to recall how I looked in white.
He doesn’t mind,
but he remembers it being so beautiful in a way that didn’t make him sad.
I tell him every day that I’m not sad,
I just don’t have permission to be happy.