Sorrow is a hot flush of prickle salt filled pearls that spill over the dry reds of your cheeks. Sorrow is the swollen ache in your throat that tugs down on the corners of your mouth: gravity that seeks to bring nose to grass, forehead to gravel: the little razor that dig into your blackened flesh.
Sorrow is the way your own arms seize themselves: freckle to freckle, hand to hand, all identical and opposite. Sorrow is knowing that all sounds coming out of your own mouth and all self-caressing comfort is utterly and irrevocably and inexplicably vain.
Sorrow is the cool glass you smash your brow against in reflective attempts to cool poundings in your temple and calm the only constant of life: drumming, hot-blood pumping four-chambers that will one day Fail You. Sorrow is dirt you inhale into your starved lungs when it buries your head in earthy embrace awaiting your thrashing to grow still as you’re shushed like an animal before butcher until your hair blows gently in the wind.
Sorrow is the way pain like fire licks every crevice of your sweet skin until molted scars like old corpses swallow you whole making you utterly and irrevocably and inexplicably unrecognizable.
Sorrow is the eyes of your friends refusing to meet your own until the flicking of blues and greens and browns and blacks to any place besides the empty whites of your own is dizzying is numbing: an electric buzzing of static in grey matter.
Sorrow is an invisible hand wrapping gently around your neck pushing you under the oceans of your own briny making until your foam kissed lips are blue and cold—
parted slightly in a dead hope that someone will revive them.
Sorrow is the vice clenching bloodied tissue of your battered and bruised heart tightly