I have always battled
My beliefs.
Strangling them down as if they
Exist.
Pulling them from their roots hoping to look to my fingers
And see flowers,
But I look down,
And see my own empty eyes in the palms of my hands.

I feel ashamed when faced with grief.
Ashamed I can't see the
Light that they everyone else sees,
She
Is in a better place now.
I sit crying in the back rows,
To afraid to sit by someone
Who may comfort me.
I sit far enough away to cradle
My disbelief
As it crawls down my face.