dni

I say so many each day, over and over, redundant and smart and beautiful and silly and stupid.

Formed into constructs, creating sentences, paragraphs, thoughts and stories and ideas.

And I use them to express the hurt.

Why is it always easier for me to express the sorrow than the love.

I thought about words of love today, and how some of them are lost forever.

To the wrong ear, or spoken at the wrong time and then the worst category. Those never said.

I thought about you today, and what I missed to tell you.

I know the words by heart, and I hope I don't choke on them for the rest of my life because they're stuck in my throat.

"Don't worry, I'll turn 100"

Words are sometimes lies.

Missed that mark by almost 40 years. Maybe that's how long I'll choke on these words.

I love you. I miss you and I'm sorry.

I see people describing it as their friend, like a cool wind getting caught on a single tear.

They talk about it with fondness,

Mine is like a beast, with spikes and it floats. It makes no sound it just creeps up on me and stings when it's too close and it makes me choke when I'm amongs people, but leave when I'm alone.

It's not a cat in my lap that keeps me company.

My grief is an ugly little thing and it takes many forms. Many cigarettes and forgotten meals, chapped lips and breaths that feel like drowning.

And it feels like nothing. It's nothing most times.

Not nothing as in 'not there'. But nothing as in like not allowing anything else into the void. Laughs are heavy and dull, the sun's too bright, and even the sadness feels more exhausting, more redundant than sad. Like a chore.

I exist. With the ugly little monster in the corner of my room.

When the things I see that are beautiful words and brush strokes just hurt for being so beautiful and feeling this bone deep jealousy.

I paint it in colours, muted or bright, let the surface shimmer with light, write a story with shadows, and I go on and on.

But the inside it's hollow.

I'm hollow.

Like a vase.

Not a pretty one,

one that never held flowers,

one your grandma has,

that has collected dust in the corner.

I was filled once.

With laughter, and passion and love and so much friendship.

And I poured. So much. So much, hoping for someone to see the work I put into the lines and the colours, to see a soul rather than a vase.

But I'm hollow now.

I hear the echos of the drops I spilled, they dance around empty walls, linger until they twirl again, untill even the memories leave....

The vase

Dusty in a corner, overlooked. It's always been there, always in this corner, on this shelf.

Always there. Always forgotten.

i will fill myself again. (I just hope it won't be blood, rage and hopelessness this time again)

But it would be easier, if someone thought to plant a seed.