A Grief Like Anger

I wish that my grief didn’t look like anger.

A final mess:

Taking care of a woman who was supposed to have taken care of me.


It isn’t becoming to be so hateful.

Sit with your feelings without judging them,

I remind myself.

Picking apart the sticky papers, I keep getting dragged back to that eight year old little girl, back to when I was still becoming who I became.

But you aren’t that little girl anymore,

My counselor reminds me

as I navigate twisting fragments of memory that float before my eyes

like spirochetes.

I wish my grief didn’t look like anger, because she’s my companion whether I like it–reject her, welcome her, plan a party for her–or not.

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