It would be wrong to say I am grieving. Grieving feels like such an active process, a constant yearning. Instead, I feel passive acceptance in a world washed of color.

"How many people are there inside of me, screaming at the top of their lungs for their voices to be heard? I wrap my arms around this frail body and can’t help but shake as these long-lost echoes of torment overflow, threatening my capacity to hold on."

"What force within me is only able to draw from tension, pain, loss, hardship, regret, and blissfully bittersweet emotions? I do not find inspiration in love, but in the complicated mess of it."

"Like a child in a temper tantrum, I wanted to threaten God with my own self-harm. I wanted to say, “I’ll do it if you don’t stop this pain! I will!” Deep down, I was a powerless child using any bargaining chip I had available to me. It was illogical but I didn’t care. I knew that God did not intend to bargain with me, that the only person facing the consequences of my actions would be myself."

"Hope is like a viper sinking her venomous fangs into my flesh. The temporary shock feels good, the endorphins trick me into believing all is well. But when the poison reaches my blood, there’s no other option but to collapse."