It fills my lungs,
coats it with dust and debris,
layering down until
all I can do is choke.
My grief burns its way
right through my stomach,
makes me sick
like sticky spoiled milk
and unrefrigerated meat does.
My tears like oil
cling to my skin.
Missing you doesn't ache,
it screams.
It echoes back and forth
in the void that's still shaped like you.
Everything is off
since you were lost.
The wrongness the only thing
that makes sense.
I don't care that
everyone tells me
that I'm consumed by this.
I'm not ready to feel
anything else but this.
Back to normal
is its own kind of hell.
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