#fitting as hell

The Ghost of Rotting Truth

You are an actor. You are a performer. You bow to an audience of none but yourself and the gods that know you are a liar. This pain and this longing once drowned you, but time has passed. You were congratulated for your healing. But grief’s icy hands remain inside of your chest, cupping your heart. Grief is hooking its fingers under the ridges of your ribcage. With time, it will tear you open. You are meant to bleed slowly. The agony will softly devour you from the back of your memory, and you will smile through it all like it doesn’t hurt, taking your bow when the performance is over. But when the curtains close, do you crumble to your knees? Who reaches for you? When the healer falls, who checks to make sure they are alright? Silas Melvin wrote, “You’re so polite with your sadness. you don’t want to ruin this for anyone.”