The instant before the bombshell hits, that's when you see it.
                                                             ­                                 hear it.

So the moment before it drops on you, you know.
And then it hits, and...
Well.
You're gone.
Just. Like. That.


But sometimes, the bomb doesn't explode right at the moment it hits.
sometimes, you're in just the right place, and you live to see another day.


Still, you got some warning -- about half a second's worth.
(or if you blinked or you sneezed, then maybe
    all you got was a snap you didn't hear. maybe
    all you got was a last thought like every other
                                          thought you'd ever had,
the kind of suddenness that is sometimes a mercy.)


But what about the people
who saw the explosion in the distance,
watched it play on loop on TV?
But what about the people
who care, about you,
who find out after the bombshell has hit,
who feel their heart skip a beat in their chest
when their brain puts together the pieces?


And when it misses you --
when you get back up, somehow still relatively whole --
what is that going to do to the
people you care about, on the day that they stop.
being near-misses?


truth is:
you're not thinking about other people's calamities,
not the instant before it hits.


But I'm
              still
                       here. And I'm wondering
if there's a way: to pause them all,
every moment cascading before it fades away
in free  
           f
               a
                   l
                      l.

Because the hits. keep. coming.
and i'm here,
                        still.
but i can't keep on taking them like i'm used to.

Grief doesn't have an expiry date.
So if it hits you in the guts
everytime you hear her name,
grieve and feel every emotion
it evokes in you.
You have every right to
not disregard it.

You know those days --
those sad, miserable, sucker-punched in the heart, sort of days --
when all you want, is for the tears to well out of you?
for your tears to flow, so that at least something comes out?
But it's as though you have no more tears left in you.
Your well is all dried up.

It's a bit like my heart, actually,
The way it's dropping,
so
     far
           down
                       in my chest.
(I'm almost worried it'll disappear.)

And I have friends.
I have these wonderful, beautiful, friends of mine -- I have people.
But it feels
                     as though
I am glass.
                     fragile.
                     see-through.

And no matter how I want
                                                   to scream, "HELP!"
the words stay sticky, stuck,
                                                   in my throat.
And in the end, well.
I'm back all alone.

But I am still breathing.
       I am still living.
                still wanting to keep on doing those things.
More than anything, I want to push
that darkness,
that fear,
that lingering sadness, swallowing me whole into its abyss --
I want to push it far, far, away.

But all I can do now, is ask:
"How do I get out of here?"
Like that little lost child, whom I have not been in so long.
And hope
for an answer
that will not come.




-- original, typed in romaji --




Korewa,
Nakitakutemo, nakitakutemo,
Ikiru kotoga zenzen mazushikutte,
Mou, namidawa nai.
tte iu kannji.

Nannka, kokoro ga sukoshi zutsu
"chi-nn" to ochiterumitai.
Soshite, tomodachi ga donnani itemo
Jibunnwa fuyou no gurasu
Mou, toumei mitai ni natte
[Tasukete] to iitakutemo
Kotobawa nodo ni tsuikotte,
Owariniwa mata hitoribochida.

Demo, mada ikiterushi,
             mada ikitai****,
Kono kurosa, kono nayamiwa,
Tookuni oshitai.
Daga, maigo no kodomo no youni,
[Douyatte kokokara deruno?]
toshika kikenai.