Tuesday, October 7, 2014


her grief was something like a blanket of nothing.

it didn't keep her warm.
but it prevented her from reaching out to anyone and kept her insulated from the
                stumbling, misguided condolence of others.
the memories were warm.
                                but painful.

the nothing was comforting in it's nothingness.  it had no expectations.  it bred no weight.

it was a safe void in which to exist, in which to incubate. until she could survive
                outside of it.

a gross, tragic metamorphosis.  a mother who has lost her child.

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