Today my grief is a 200 lb python, wound lovingly around my torso, slowly and surely squeezing the breath out of me.
Today my grief is the crumbling walls of a white room, and the vast blank darkness beyond.
Today my grief is a stopped heart, and the tripping beats it makes to catch up.
Today my grief is aching arms, and tears that won’t fall, and eyes that can’t open without seeing betrayal.
People will soon stop asking me how I’m doing. My grief is nearing that expiration date on compassion, when concern slowly morphs into impatience, then disgust. But my grief still exists. It still greets me upon waking, it still waits for me in the quiet places and dark spaces. My grief doesn’t care how disgusted I am with it.
My grief doesn’t put on the same suit every day, or even every hour. It wears python skin, white paint, anxiety, crying. It shows up dressed in a sunny day and desperation. It lays atop the surface tension of a glass of wine, chased down my throat by the sharp tartness of escape. It comes costumed or bare, disguised or honest, but it comes, regardless.
Today is grief. Every damn day is grief.