I was twelve when the world collapsed—
not loud. No explosion.
Just a silence so thick
it wrapped around my lungs
and stayed there.
They said, “He’s gone.”
Like it was a story ending.
But I was still in the room—
staring at him,
staring at death
in a body I still wanted to hug.
His chest didn’t rise.
His hands were cold.
The room was too bright,
and I couldn’t find my own breath.
My knees hit the floor.
Hard.
I didn’t even feel it.
Since then,
my body became a graveyard.
I carry him in every joint.
I carry him in every bruise
I gave myself in the dark
just to scream without noise.
Some nights,
my chest locks like his did.
Some nights,
I press my fingernails into my skin
just to feel anything other than this ache.
Pain became prayer.
Blood became language.
And the flashbacks—
they’re not just in my mind.
They live in my spine,
my throat,
my hands that shake
when I walk past a hospital,
or see an old man sleep.
I still see him.
In that bed.
Eyes closed,
like he was pretending.
But he wasn’t pretending.
He left.
And took the light with him.
Grandma found me once,
curled in the bathroom,
wrapped around a razor
like it was a lifeline.
She didn’t flinch.
She just sat,
and let the silence breathe.
Then, through her cracked voice, she said:
“When my grandfather died,
the world stopped making sense.
He raised me. He loved me.
And when they buried him,
they buried the only place I ever felt like I mattered.”
“You think this is new?” she whispered.
“Pain’s been passed down
like an heirloom none of us asked for.”
I didn’t speak.
Just shook,
and bled quietly
into the towel I didn’t mean to grab.
Because I know too much now.
I know what grief tastes like—
metallic and sharp.
I know what trauma feels like—
tight skin, locked jaw,
a pulse that races for no reason.
I know how silence can scream.
I know how mirrors can lie.
I know what it’s like
to want to leave
just to stop reliving.
Colors don’t sing anymore.
They hum like warning signs.
But the blue…
The blue still bleeds.
It stains everything he touched.
And I can’t wash it off.
So I whisper at night:
Please.
Stay a little longer.
Let me fall asleep
without the sound of a flatline
echoing in my skull.
Let me be twelve again—
before my arms became maps of pain.
Before I forgot what warmth felt like
that didn’t come from bandages.
I wish I could see the world through those eyes—
the ones that looked at him and saw forever.
But forever lied.
And now I know too much.
Still…
the blue hasn’t faded.
It bleeds,
but it hasn’t gone.
And I wish.
I still wish.
This is an experience and conversation I had with my grandmother after my grandpa, the person who taught me to breath, took their last breath right in front of me.
