They say grief is a well.
Deep with creeping water that seeps first into your socks. It climbs like ivy, making an abandoned building out of your bones.
I can see it. The well, I mean, the grief and the water and the creeping.
I can see it.
But.
I think grief is more like a storm.
Clouds that hug the horizon, caress the sky with fingers that leave bruises the colour of the skin under your eyes when you haven’t slept for a week.
Lightning bolts that illuminate the shapes in the dark for just long enough that you get to see remnants of a normal life,
picnic blankets not abandoned to rain,
beaches covered with sand and not hail,
but the light never lasts.
And thunder. Thunder that drowns out the sound of laughter.
Thunder that only knows how to emphasise the gaps of quiet in between each earth-shattering sigh.
They say that grief is a well,
it collects in your chest and fills and spills over as the walls wage war with the water.
I can see it, I can.
But my grief is more like a storm where lightning likes to strike the same place a thousand times each day.
About the Creator
Macy Dodds
18 • Cumbria, United Kingdom •
[Trying] to change the world with my words.
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