This grief, it's what's most accessible. We hide in the morning in cat trees and thicket. Play possum in the ammunition field. The dawn grown bruised and soft like a plum. This sweet contagion, how I wear it on my glossed lips, my powdered dress. The white Mary Jane's that are never quite white. At dusk we scream bloody murder in the graves. Twist our bodies in the swings till we can't breathe. Our pockets jumbled with bones and crumpled school schedules. My mouth tasting of chocolate and a boy's heated breath. We're not quite innocent, not quite right, play light as a feather stiff as a...
It's been raining on and off. I've been hurting recently, a strange spot of darkness, because I'm single and yearn for a mate.
But now, I'm in bed, listening to the gentle taps and patters, the soft music the rain makes, awash in a sea of pillows and blankets. The cats are curled protectively around me. I've been sleepy all day, and I nap for bits and pieces of the day, wake up and nap again. I feel safe, warm, and cozy. Okay to be alone.
I was always afraid Of growing older. I'm 47. My twenties and thirties were dark, Horrible times, Storms of insecurity and uncertainty. But now, peace has finally come. I realize I don't need anyone To make me happy. I only have myself. And that's enough. It's okay to be alone.