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.