The Worst Part

The worst part is realizing you've been buried, compartmentalized.

You're still invisible.

Grief fades and addiction settles in like a king on a throne.

But, for me, grief is like a corset. It never gives, never relinquishes.

I wear it.

It wears me.

I cannot breathe.

No one wants to know they weren't worth fighting for.

No one wants to hear empty words and clanging silence.

No one wants to bear the brunt of every tearing, every burning, every finger letting go.

It's not on me, but it's mine.

It's not my fault, but it's my punishment.

It's not my way, but it's where I walk.

It's this.

And this is unbearable. This is like coming to the end of the freeway and finding only a wall.

So here we sit.

We sit and wait for the wall to move.

As if walls move on their own.

At some point I'll have to tear it down.

Or turn around.

I can't just sit here. I can't just pretend I'm still moving. I can't pretend I'm not alone.

I can't.

*November 2012