I sit and contemplate
pen in hand
What to write
when I think about you.

I want to jot down
the things you have missed
the opportunities that could have been
the way my mind has spiraled out of control
the number of tears I've shed
I've counted them.

I want to scream out
angry that you can't hold me when I've needed to be held most
the fact that I have shifted
this tremendous weight of grief
onto every person who dares to be a shoulder to lean on.
It's not fair to them.
It's not fair.
It's not fair.
It's not fair.
You're not here.

You see,
We tend to dwell on death.
Like it's the only thing that defines who you are
once you're gone.

But that's far from true.
For Vita in Morte,
In death, there is life.
The sorrow that you are gone
Cannot compare to the fact that you have LIVED
You have BREATHED
You have laughed and danced and jumped and loved.
You have loved so greatly.
Why else would you be so missed, if it was not for the love you gave on this earth?
Your feet have walked miles on soft soil.
Your lips have sang sweet melodies that draws everyone near to come and listen.
Your hands have held those of small children, orphaned creatures, and tattered album covers.
Your have climbed the tallest mountains and swam in the warmest oceans.
You have cried and screamed and walked away.
You have made mistakes, lived with regrets and taken gut-wrenching chances.
You have made your presence known.
You have LIVED.

Author Charles Bukowski once wrote,
"You can't beat death. But you can beat death in life."
And I, for one, have never seen this task
more beautifully accomplished.

So as the unthinkable has now been slammed into your chest,
like being hit by a train, called "reality express"
Let us not focus on a cruel trick called death,
But by the way you lived before you took your last breath.

A bond.
2. A love.
3. A touch.

1. I was born into a family with a sister already 12 years older than me. Growing up, you could say she was not only my mentor, but my role model. And my friend.

1. My sister and I have the exact same freckle on the left side of our chin. Same color hair. Same eyes. I think you could say we looked like sisters.

1. My sister died on October 24th, 2017.

1. Her friend, whom I had never met, began crying the moment he saw me at the cemetery. I made him cry because I looked so much like her. I don't know why, but to this day, it still haunts me.

2. I knew love was powerful, but I never fully knew its strength until I met him.

2. In part, when he relapsed, it felt like I had lost him too. Sometimes I find it harder to grieve the living than the dead.

2. Through all the confusion. The "I love you's" and the "*******'s." The kisses and the bruises. The toothy smiles and the trembling frowns. I fought to find where that powerful love had gone.

2. Now, after experiencing true love for the first time, all I can say is that sometimes, it is still not enough. It's power is truly deceiving.

3. I told myself that exploring my sexuality would be a good thing. That meeting men who appreciated my body would make me appreciate it more too.

3. When he pinned me down and told me "You invited me into your room. What did you expect?" I believed him. It shut my mouth and muted my cries for help.

3. When you've always been daddy's little girl, how do you look him in the eyes and tell him you've been *****?

3. I no longer view intimacy as a warm, exciting, and arousing touch in the hands of a lover. I view it as a tool of mistrust, personal gratification, and shame.

1. How special it is to have a blood bond with your favorite person. How swiftly the hands of death rip it away.

2. The easiest way to describe falling in love is that the butterflies in your stomach never stop. No matter how much time you spend with them. If you believe the butterflies can lift you up and carry you over any trouble in the relationship, you're wrong.

3. I never pictured **** to happen the way it did to me. I never thought I would blame myself as much as I do. His invasive words were even more harsh than his invasive body.

What I've come to find is that a bond, a love, a touch; thee beautiful concepts can become so tainted, so painful, in the too-rough fingers of this world.