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AbbyslovePoems
Why do I plan for future conversations? Why do I rehearse answers to questions no one has asked yet, for moments that haven’t arrived, for wounds that never closed? Why do I prepare myself for things that have already happened? Is it to remind myself that time doesn’t stop— even when I beg it to, even when my whole body is still kneeling on the floor of that one moment where everything broke? I imagine him everywhere. In the empty chair beside me. In the laugh that almost escapes my mouth before I remember there’s no one to hear it the way he used to. And there is no one to make me laugh like he did either. My best friend. The person who knew me before I learned how to pretend I was okay. After he died, nothing sat right in my chest again. Food tasted wrong. Music felt sharp. Silence felt louder than screaming. People said, “It’ll get easier.” They meant quieter. They meant less inconvenient for them. It’s been years, but grief doesn’t know how to read a calendar. It still shows up like it’s yesterday— like I just heard the news, like my lungs still don’t work properly, like the world still looks unreal, as if I’m watching my life through cracked glass. I try to be happy. God, I try. I stack smiles on top of each other like they might hold the weight of his absence, but they collapse every time. So I prepare. I try breaking down early. I imagine school events without him— the seats he should been in, the jokes he would whispered, the way he would look at me like I’m not alone. Like I’m not just someone in the crowd. I cry now so I won’t cry then. I let it tear me apart in advance because public grief feels illegal- because people get uncomfortable when you miss someone too loudly. I practice talking about his death like it doesn’t still choke me. I soften my voice. I keep my face calm. I say the words as if they don’t burn my mouth— “He passed away.” Like that phrase explains anything. Everyone else seems to have moved on. They laugh freely. Nobody says his name. They remember him like a person that just moved away instead of a person that chose to end his path before it even started. I am stuck. Not because I want to be— but because part of me was buried with him. They joke about suicide like it’s just a joke, “I’m gonna **** myself.” Because you don’t want to take a math test? It’s like it’s not real to other people. But it's real. The domino effect is also real. One fall changes everything. One person gone and the rest of us spend our lives trying not to tip over next. Parents ask, “If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?” like it’s a clever lesson. Like it’s funny. They don’t understand— friends are all I have in this world. They are my anchors. My proof that I exist. - Losing one doesn’t feel like losing someone. It feels like someone ripping my limbs straight from my body and asking “why can’t you just walk it off?” And the cruelest part— no matter how much awareness exists, no matter how many posters or speeches or hashtags— suicide is still a joke to people. A punchline. A rumor. A story told too casually. Even by those who were in the room when it happened. Even by those who watched the life leave his eyes every single day and still learned nothing. So I plan. I rehearse. I prepare myself for a lifetime without him— not because I’m strong, but because I have no other choice. And yes- I’m still here, still living, still moving forward, but the part of me that knew how to live followed him and never came back. Time doesn’t stop. It never did. But part of me did. And it’s still waiting for him to come back and tell me this was all some terrible misunderstanding. So I plan for the future—not because I believe in it, but because pretending he might still be there is the only way I survive waking up without him. Time keeps moving—cold, cruel, indifferent— while the world keeps breathing like nothing happened, and I remain trapped inside the life that ended the moment his did. If grief is love with nowhere to go, then my chest is a grave I carry with me.. — Rehearsing his absence until it feels permanent, loving someone so hard it outlived him, pouring everything I am into someone who will never... - Come home.
0
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 3:59 PM UTC
I Practice Grief Like a Script
Why do I plan for future conversations? Why do I rehearse answers to questions no one has asked yet, for moments that haven’t arrived, for wounds that never closed? Why do I prepare myself for things that have already happened? Is it to remind myself that time doesn’t stop— even when I beg it to, even when my whole body is still kneeling on the floor of that one moment where everything broke? I imagine him everywhere. In the empty chair beside me. In the laugh that almost escapes my mouth before I remember there’s no one to hear it the way he used to. And there is no one to make me laugh like he did either. My best friend. The person who knew me before I learned how to pretend I was okay. After he died, nothing sat right in my chest again. Food tasted wrong. Music felt sharp. Silence felt louder than screaming. People said, “It’ll get easier.” They meant quieter. They meant less inconvenient for them. It’s been years, but grief doesn’t know how to read a calendar. It still shows up like it’s yesterday— like I just heard the news, like my lungs still don’t work properly, like the world still looks unreal, as if I’m watching my life through cracked glass. I try to be happy. God, I try. I stack smiles on top of each other like they might hold the weight of his absence, but they collapse every time. So I prepare. I try breaking down early. I imagine school events without him— the seats he should been in, the jokes he would whispered, the way he would look at me like I’m not alone. Like I’m not just someone in the crowd. I cry now so I won’t cry then. I let it tear me apart in advance because public grief feels illegal- because people get uncomfortable when you miss someone too loudly. I practice talking about his death like it doesn’t still choke me. I soften my voice. I keep my face calm. I say the words as if they don’t burn my mouth— “He passed away.” Like that phrase explains anything. Everyone else seems to have moved on. They laugh freely. Nobody says his name. They remember him like a person that just moved away instead of a person that chose to end his path before it even started. I am stuck. Not because I want to be— but because part of me was buried with him. They joke about suicide like it’s just a joke, “I’m gonna **** myself.” Because you don’t want to take a math test? It’s like it’s not real to other people. But it's real. The domino effect is also real. One fall changes everything. One person gone and the rest of us spend our lives trying not to tip over next. Parents ask, “If your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?” like it’s a clever lesson. Like it’s funny. They don’t understand— friends are all I have in this world. They are my anchors. My proof that I exist. - Losing one doesn’t feel like losing someone. It feels like someone ripping my limbs straight from my body and asking “why can’t you just walk it off?” And the cruelest part— no matter how much awareness exists, no matter how many posters or speeches or hashtags— suicide is still a joke to people. A punchline. A rumor. A story told too casually. Even by those who were in the room when it happened. Even by those who watched the life leave his eyes every single day and still learned nothing. So I plan. I rehearse. I prepare myself for a lifetime without him— not because I’m strong, but because I have no other choice. And yes- I’m still here, still living, still moving forward, but the part of me that knew how to live followed him and never came back. Time doesn’t stop. It never did. But part of me did. And it’s still waiting for him to come back and tell me this was all some terrible misunderstanding. So I plan for the future—not because I believe in it, but because pretending he might still be there is the only way I survive waking up without him. Time keeps moving—cold, cruel, indifferent— while the world keeps breathing like nothing happened, and I remain trapped inside the life that ended the moment his did. If grief is love with nowhere to go, then my chest is a grave I carry with me.. — Rehearsing his absence until it feels permanent, loving someone so hard it outlived him, pouring everything I am into someone who will never... - Come home.
Abbyslove
Written by
Abbyslove
18/F/Al
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 3:59 PM UTC
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