/Assume all trigger Warnings before you start reading this piece of writing/
i) suddenly the sad in my sadness seems so thirsty as if it were to swell up to the size of a whale drunk with two pacific oceans. i soak my eyes wet too often for the sad to drink all my tears in a single gulp.
ii) i woke up this morning with a color blindness for yellows. I bite loneliness and chew guilt in breakfast. the stale pizza from two days ago in my fridge now reeks of a destroyed appetite. the unmade bed has been struggling to make space for the numbness that sleeps with me. skipped showers and suppers now barely matter because they could neither fill an empty heart nor wash off a thick layer of the language of apathy on my skin. faith has been falling off my prayers like sinner souls from the way to heaven.
iii) the last time grief lived here, it built cityscapes and monuments named after my exes. it called my body the country of its own but i pulled it out of me and everything came crumbling down. my body is grief’s favorite front porch. the welcome embroidered on it attracts refugees more than tourists. Grief tiptoes into me in patterns. It shows up as sadness resting in the dark pits under my eyes from disturbed sleep cycles. i ignore the red flags. This sadness mimics a gentle house guest too well but then it hijacks and traps me in my own mind which is a maze with hundreds of mirrors everywhere. i kept exchanging questions with myself because i was the question. there were no answers, never.
iv) i read the poems i had written back then and i could see someone dying there. the sick in me was on a reckless search party of an identity and it found one in the grief. the sick in me now writes french souvenirs to this body in form of love poems for the identity it has found in grief. i am re-dying, here, while writing this.