Aftermath
Aftermath,
I was convinced that
every crack in my skin would stay in decay and
that I’d open my eyes to blackness one Saturday because,
well.. it’s easier that way.
And that I would swim in grief until my skin wrinkled, that
your name would always be brittle, falling off my tongue.
That this year June wouldn’t hit so damn hard
that doctors would finally find a cure for
sadness...
and here I am today,
still trying to find ways to make you proud of me
while turning my grief into something larger than
those 5 letters that take up so much space
in my life
and yearning to thrive and still and be alright
despite living in the aftermath of suicide.
