Grief
I have worn strength like borrowed clothes, too heavy, never mine, stitched together from other people’s needs, while my own seams split in silence. I smile so no one sees the cracks, I carry weight I never chose, but at night my chest becomes an ocean, and I am swallowed whole by tides of sorrow. I want to scream, but my throat is stone. I want to weep, but my eyes are deserts. So I sit, hollow and unbroken, because breaking feels like a luxury I was never allowed. Grief has no timetable. It lingers in the marrow, a quiet rot, a slow eclipse, asking nothing, taking everything. And still they call me strong. As if strength is not another word for loneliness.