The sadness. The broken. The melancholy. The gloom. The pain inside.
There’s more of it all now. The living grief is accompanied by the death grief. Different but the same. They still hurt in distressed crying waves that never seem to give warning. Weeping alone like the branches of the tree that bares the same name as the actual sorrowful act.
“How are you?” is the common question and the answer is, done. I am done. I have had about all I can take. Defeat and anger hold hands as the city calls leaving messages on my phone with electric reminders of the shit life we’ve lived for over 8 years now. Not to mention the forever reminders of the man that made me taken by the same monster that holds up host inside the boy I made. There is joy. I know it. I’ve seen it and felt it even in the hurricane that swirls around while we run from it in the rain that NEVER seems to stop. Pelting, relentless, rain. It’s somewhere in the storm. Maybe. I hope.
Lonely and lost. Solid black trailing behind me like a shadow. Slow and low. Safe but sad. Alive but barely. Surviving in the depths one dismal despondent moment to the next. That’s just how this story goes and the writer is tired. Oh so tired.
Black and blue blended into the bellyache of the heavy hearted frown in my mind and unfortunately, there’s more blue than black these days. Way too much blue.