Monologue of Grief

The grief sits in my chest, heavy and unrelenting, pressing up into my throat until it’s hard to breathe without crying. My whole body tenses under the weight of it. Every muscle feels alert, like I’m bracing for something I can’t stop from coming.

I can feel the tears there, begging to be released, but I can’t let them out unless I’m completely alone. And yet, I don’t move. I don’t create the space to be alone enough to let them fall. I just sit in the ache, held captive between wanting to release it and not being ready to face what comes after.

When it’s loud like this, I find myself wondering how I’ll ever get over the loss…if I ever will. And if I even want to. Because as much as the grief hurts, what hurts more is the idea that one day, it might not. That one day, how important you are to me, how much I care, could fade into something smaller.

And I don’t want that.

I don’t want the love behind this grief to change, even if the pain never fully quiets.

You are the kind of person I never want to forget.

Author’s Note:

Sometimes I just write as I feel it. This is a vulnerable share for me. Not that my other posts aren’t vulnerable, but there are layers to vulnerability… and allowing this to live outside of my head or the privacy of a notes app is not something I ever imagined I’d do. But there is something cathartic about it living somewhere. Idk, anyway…….I hope others hold this with kindness instead of judgement.

Writing like I’m speaking to the person is my way of saying what’s in my heart while respecting boundaries. If you ever find yourself wanting to say something to someone you can’t speak to for whatever reason, put it somewhere. Talk like you’re talking to them. That way you don’t have to hold it like it has no place to go.