#griefpoem - Hello Poetry

You said, “You’re better now,” and I said, “Not quite.” I’m just quieter when I lose the fight. I’ve learned how to spiral without making a mess— I flinch like a debutante in danger— I cry in the dress I bought for my funeral. Healing looks holy if you’re far enough back; from across the room, I look redeemed. Up close, it’s mascara and panic attacks. I am so well-behaved now— I answer in lowercase, I apologize in advance. You’d never guess I once threw a chair so hard it split the act in half. If I miss you, I don’t text. I answer fake calls from you-shaped phantoms. We fight. I win. I stand in the doorway for dramatic effect. I practice my exits more than my lines. I stage a comeback with no audience. I watch the part of the movie where it all goes wrong, then rewind it. Then rewind it again. I am healing like a fraud. Like a martyr with stage fright. Like a saint who missed her cue. Like someone who knows I’m still your favorite bedtime story— but only when I end. I turn my breakdowns into brunch plans, my grief into good posture. I answer questions with questions. I wear rings so I have something to twist. I smile like it’s stage direction. I rehearse sanity like some girls practice wedding vows. I light candles for each version of myself you forgot. I document. I archive the damage— like it might get reviewed later by God. Or worse, by you. If you’re reading this: I didn’t mean it. (I meant every word.) If you’re avoiding this: good. I wanted you to squint at the poem’s edges and wonder if the blood was real. (You always liked your violence subtle.) (You always liked your girls learning your language— just to beg in it.) I pray more now. Not to be saved. Just to stay interesting. Do you know how hard it is to look healed when your rage is wearing a rosary and smiling in group photos? Every time I wanted to scream, I posted nothing instead. Silence is the loudest performance I’ve ever given. I don’t raise my voice. I sharpen it. I sweeten it. I lace it with facts you’ll misinterpret on purpose. My therapist says I intellectualize emotion. I say, “Thank you.” My boss says, “You need to sleep and eat like you’re real.” but she loves the **** I write. I tell them both I’m fine. I look fantastic when I’m about to snap. I know what I sound like. I know how this poem reads. That’s the worst part— it’s always intentional. That’s the best part— I’ll pretend I didn’t mean it, and I planned that too.

0

Apr 8, 2025

Apr 8, 2025 at 2:44 PM UTC

Kiernan515

I Cry in Dresses I’d Die In

You said, “You’re better now,” and I said, “Not quite.” I’m just quieter when I lose the fight. I’ve learned how to spiral without making a mess— I flinch like a debutante in danger— I cry in the dress I bought for my funeral. Healing looks holy if you’re far enough back; from across the room, I look redeemed. Up close, it’s mascara and panic attacks. I am so well-behaved now— I answer in lowercase, I apologize in advance. You’d never guess I once threw a chair so hard it split the act in half. If I miss you, I don’t text. I answer fake calls from you-shaped phantoms. We fight. I win. I stand in the doorway for dramatic effect. I practice my exits more than my lines. I stage a comeback with no audience. I watch the part of the movie where it all goes wrong, then rewind it. Then rewind it again. I am healing like a fraud. Like a martyr with stage fright. Like a saint who missed her cue. Like someone who knows I’m still your favorite bedtime story— but only when I end. I turn my breakdowns into brunch plans, my grief into good posture. I answer questions with questions. I wear rings so I have something to twist. I smile like it’s stage direction. I rehearse sanity like some girls practice wedding vows. I light candles for each version of myself you forgot. I document. I archive the damage— like it might get reviewed later by God. Or worse, by you. If you’re reading this: I didn’t mean it. (I meant every word.) If you’re avoiding this: good. I wanted you to squint at the poem’s edges and wonder if the blood was real. (You always liked your violence subtle.) (You always liked your girls learning your language— just to beg in it.) I pray more now. Not to be saved. Just to stay interesting. Do you know how hard it is to look healed when your rage is wearing a rosary and smiling in group photos? Every time I wanted to scream, I posted nothing instead. Silence is the loudest performance I’ve ever given. I don’t raise my voice. I sharpen it. I sweeten it. I lace it with facts you’ll misinterpret on purpose. My therapist says I intellectualize emotion. I say, “Thank you.” My boss says, “You need to sleep and eat like you’re real.” but she loves the **** I write. I tell them both I’m fine. I look fantastic when I’m about to snap. I know what I sound like. I know how this poem reads. That’s the worst part— it’s always intentional. That’s the best part— I’ll pretend I didn’t mean it, and I planned that too.

103

They sit with masked-up faces, serious eyes, empty stares lost in stained glass silence. But not me. Tears fall, not out of weakness, but because every drop is a memory whispering, “Let go. I’m fine.” I don’t ask for forgiveness. This isn’t about God. This is about you — the one I loved, the one I remember without holy scripts or hollow songs. The church echoes with nothing. But my chest? A flood. And every tear says: “Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for coming real. Now breathe. Now live. I’m already gone — but never lost.” So I stand, outside the ritual, inside the fire, river-eyed and full of goodbye.

0

Jul 4, 2025

Jul 4, 2025 at 4:09 AM UTC

Vazago

Let Go

They sit with masked-up faces, serious eyes, empty stares lost in stained glass silence. But not me. Tears fall, not out of weakness, but because every drop is a memory whispering, “Let go. I’m fine.” I don’t ask for forgiveness. This isn’t about God. This is about you — the one I loved, the one I remember without holy scripts or hollow songs. The church echoes with nothing. But my chest? A flood. And every tear says: “Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for coming real. Now breathe. Now live. I’m already gone — but never lost.” So I stand, outside the ritual, inside the fire, river-eyed and full of goodbye.

28

In every letter I wrote, in every morning I still made it through, in every star I stared at for too long, I loved you there. I meant all of it. No exaggeration. No perfect words to fill the quiet air. Whatever I have left in me has been given to you. And I don’t think time is enough for this. Not even close. If eternity is real, it still wouldn’t be long enough to finish what I feel.

0

May 12

May 12, 2026 at 2:40 PM UTC

NoctraWrites

Not Even Eternity

In every letter I wrote, in every morning I still made it through, in every star I stared at for too long, I loved you there. I meant all of it. No exaggeration. No perfect words to fill the quiet air. Whatever I have left in me has been given to you. And I don’t think time is enough for this. Not even close. If eternity is real, it still wouldn’t be long enough to finish what I feel.

18