Grief

Do you feel bad 
from your place in death
in which those left behind 
must grapple with your actions?

How can I blame you.
I don’t know how I can blame you
as my heart twists at your image.
Alone. In your bed, your shower, your car.
But I do. 

Because I must live.
I must hold this grief
which ensnares the soul
until it is so angry that 
it will bite, rip, destroy, and hate.

How may I continue, 
When I have no one to show this to.
No breaks to take as life continues.
Is that how you felt?
How tired were you? 
How tired must I be?
Was it of yourself or,
of that around you? 

I will not forgive you even in a million years, 
when I hate even that, too.
My resentment for you, the dead. 

How can I convey to you the way I hate
that which makes me happy. 

How much I hate
my smiling face. 

How much I hate
my nervous mind.

How much I hate
my blood. 

And this body
which I cannot feed.

My grief that
I too will be
Nothing more than what you are.
That I will be the fourth, the fifth, or the sixth.

That I too
cannot escape.
My efforts in vain. 

I am afraid.
But who may console me? 
Who consoled you?
Death? 

I will live.
And when my last breath is drawn,
I will not have picked the time.

Amidst even these emotions, 
I hope you three found what you wanted. 
I hope that the price of peace was worth it.

And I hope 
that you cannot see
our grief.