I am not ok.
I am on my bed



So very not ok.

Because this grief shit is complicated.
Because every time I start to cry-
for her,
for him-
the thought of you steals in
the last tears never come
the ones that would cleanse me of that early sorrow
over her death.

And his.
And his, too.

But they can’t flow around the tears that come
for you.

Those never stop.
They’re never good in a queue
like good WASPy tears ought to be.

These ones come barreling through
noisy and obvious,
ugly in their insistence,
leaving me crumpled and exhausted
and wondering

will this never end?

Not this crying jag-
the separation,
the silence,
the ache,

the need to not think about you,
which causes me to think about you.

Like that damnable game.
But I want to lose this one,
sort of.

Thinking of you is all I have of you
right now.

And these complicated tears.


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