Almost all my poems are written through tears.
To be entirely honest, I’d stopped writing them.
What I thought was grief leaving my body was instead it settling on my bones.
Grief: the residue of my memories
has now become part of my skeleton.
I can not rip apart from myself
what has solidified over me.
I want to, for you
but grief hangs like a corpse in a room.
The stench.
Love,
Metacog Moon 