The last wave of sadness comes without warning,
strong and unforgiving.
It rips through walls built,
drowning out what's been sheltered.
The fragile heart is no match for the surge.

It is the eye of the storm;
It stirs up the deepest and darkest of waters,
brings in the heaviest of clouds.
It moves fast, muted but resolute in its presence;
Bearing down, its arrival is crushing.

It devastates but passes quickly;
The pieces of what's left behind will settle with the calm.
Remember the architecture of your raw heart,
the feeling of wholeness.
Remember, reconcile, reconstruct.

I read the writing,
30 years old, or older.
My Grandmother wrote,
left handed,
after a stroke.
Funny how,
it read just like
mine.
Now, what was written,
was a copy.
But 5 pages deep,
I was deeply
impressed.
What a woman.
Pictures only show
me who you used to be.
Your husband used
to call me his girlfriend,
even on his deathbed.

I wanted to quit smoking,
in honor of you.
I cried a bit
at the library,
and just for an hour
I was taken away.

To touch the same paper
you put your pen to,
it truly was an honor.

Reality hits,
your daughter is
here, to collect me.
Because that is all
I am.
It's rough,
it bites,
it truly ***** me
dry.

And when I look at your
pretty pill bottle,
and try to make sense
of a cancer that made you
ill, how to glorify
a gust of sickly
pills, I am confused
by the nurse,
the doctor,
the pastor,
the preacher,
the passer-by
and the master.

I wish your subtle
messages could
be a bit more clear.
I'm confused by the
new neighbors,
and saddened to see
myself to be just so
naive. Some tell me
that I'm 20,
a birthday tells me
I'm 19.
Who bears the truth,
the truth within,
is you.
So please,
come out and say
hello, born to die,
don't you hide,
my hair is growing
old lengths once
again-
it's a sign.

I lifted my coffee mug from the cafe table as I commented on the snow, receiving a murmur and a nod in response. I looked into my mug and I watched the snowflakes fall into the coffee and quickly disappear among the liquid blackness. Why he wanted to sit outside, I had no idea. I went along with it though. I liked watching him stare into the white blankets that covered the dead grass next to the sidewalks. He stared into the ice, in deep thought. The looks that always seemed to grace his face were those of concentration and intensity. He broke his stare with the snow and looked up at me, with that smile that made his dimples show. He outstretched his arm over the table, grabbing my hand. We sat in silence as he traced circles on my thumb. I asked him what he was thinking about, and he asked me how the snow can be so pure in a city that is so *****. I told him I didn't know. I really didn't. It was in that moment, watching him think about the snow, that I realized I loved him.

Looking back on that day, a year in the future, in this same cafe at the same table, I realized the reason why the snow was so beautiful that day; we loved each other. Everything was beautiful. The snow is grey now, stepped on by muddy snow boots and filled with decaying leaves. I wonder if it had always looked that way, even on that day that seemed so blindingly white. Our love was beautiful. The world was beautiful. Now I can see my heart lying on the ground, stepped on by muddy snow boots and filled with decaying leaves.

i was not meant to run
through fire or hold
stars in my hands, but
my fingers are calloused
from trying.

I saw your message.
I was there for you when you were feeling down and now you feel obliged to be here for me.
Don't.
I helped you because I cared.
I know you care too but,
I don't need your help.
I don't need anyone's help.
I really appreciate your concern.
But,
if you help me,
you'll remind me of her.
She helped me and then,
she stabbed me in the back.
You're a nice girl.
You're one of the few who care.
I don't want you to remind of her.
For then,
I will be afraid of losing you in the worst way possible.
I really regret lying to you when you asked me if I was okay.
However,
I had no choice.
Mainly because I don't want your help.
I hate it when people pity me.
I feel weak and I may be anything but,
I'm most definitely not weak.
I refuse to be weak.
even if I have to pretend,
I will be strong.
After everything that has happened to me and I know that's not much compared to other but,
I refused to be pitied.
The only one who is allowed to pity me is that one girl who stuck with me through EVERYTHING and we aren't even close.
She's a nice girl too.
I love you,
really but I refuse to be weak.
I will be strong no matter what.
You're a good person, but some things,
I have to deal with on my own.
By the way,
I'm not fine and I'll never be fine, at least, for the foreseeable future.
I'm bent.
I was broken but I fixed myself.
I guess that makes me fine but,
I'm not as fine as before.