If grief could speak
If grief had hands, I wonder if they would be rough or soft.
Would they grip the pen tightly, pressing too hard,
or would they let the ink bleed through the page,
heavy, unrestrained, unwilling to stay inside the lines?
I think about that sometimes.
And if grief could speak, I wonder what it would say about me.
Would it sigh, rub its temples, lean back in the chair across from me
like a worn-out friend who’s been here too long?
Would it shake its head, watching me pull at it,
yank at its collar like a too-tight sweater,
like something I could peel off and forget?
“She still doesn’t get it,” grief would mutter,
rolling its shoulders, shifting its weight.
“She fights like hell, every time.
Clawing, gasping, trying to tear me from her skin
like I’m a mistake, like I don’t belong.”
It would drum its fingers on the table between us.
Maybe reach for my coffee, take a sip,
just to piss me off.
“She thinks I’m something temporary,” it would say,
shaking its head.
“Thinks I’m just some bad storm she can wait out,
something she can outlast if she holds on tight enough.”
And I’d glare.
Because I don’t want to hear it.
Because I do hold on tight.
Because I have outlasted storms before.
But grief would only lean forward, elbows on the table,
eyes softer now, voice lower.
“I don’t come in one size, Marissa.
Some days I’m the weight on your chest.
Some days I’m just a whisper in the corner of your mind.
I can’t choose how big I am, how long I stay.
Neither can you.”
And I’d cross my arms. Look away.
Try to pretend I’m not listening.
“You keep trying to rip me out,” grief would sigh.
“Like I’m a stain you can scrub away.
Like I’m something to be solved, to be beaten.
But I am not your enemy.”
It would watch me carefully now, waiting.
Not angry, not impatient—just knowing.
“I am not the villain in your story.
I am not the thing that broke you.”
It would tap its fingers against its chest.
“I am just love.”
“Love with nowhere to go.”
And for once, I wouldn’t have an answer.
