You're still dead.
Breakfast was three sips of coffee at 2.30pm.
I sat with the pain.
I moved with the pain.
It’s Christmas day.
The bathroom floor is my home.
Always.
Our normal is gone.
My pine tree green toenails are leaned up against the bathtub.
The only trace of normal I can spot are the bruises my ski boots left on my shins.
Pain is what I know,
at least something that feels like home.
It’s different though,
she’s still sitting deep,
but she made new friends.
She tasted acceptance,
she’s discovered love.
Forgiveness is still waiting at the door.
You died but you aren’t the only one she’s grieving.
She’s grieving all the versions of herself she didn’t know existed.
The ones, she didn’t know she had to let go,
she didn’t know she could.
The ones she found when she dove into the pain,
months after that phone call.
She’s still carrying the sword forged by the hands of a little girl.
She’s still holding it up against a looming rejection.
She still thinks protection can be bought.
But her world is nuanced,
not free.
Her world is lighter,
her world is full.
She doesn’t have the answers
contemplating, however,
to stop looking for them.
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