Quit telling me to wake up. I’m full of bed sores. Drunk on a Tuesday afternoon. My fingertips are bleeding. I keep playing the same songs on repeat. Silence is an answer too, you know. The nothingness. Sometimes I roam the yard of the house I grew up in. I know it’s not mine anymore- a sticky act of trespassing that looks like this: messy handstands, lying on damp grass that stains my skin in mossy green hues, letting the treetops hide my shadow. I hope I don’t scare the neighbors. If they ask questions I’ll just tell them that I’m a lonely ghost. Loss makes you do this type of dance- makes your knees buckle when you think about it for too long- makes mourning fill a sickness in your gut. So light your candles and say a prayer for me. We can only be human if we admit that we ‘re sinners. That’s the best part for some people. I’m somewhere in between. And I’m tired of watching my hands tremble from the damage- I can’t even hold myself together. Pretending to stand in a crowded room as my sweat beads ricochet off the floor- and it’s the dead of winter so everyone must know I’m panicking. But please quit telling me this is normal. Quit telling me how how I carry grief with grace. Quit telling me to wake up.