march 26, 2026 -- and every month i think i miss you more - more widely - more fiercely - more whole-ly - more brokenly - more everything - - more always - more and more and more and more
well
grief is a well
i think i am meant to drink from
to rinse out the taste of bitterness,
but sometimes i don't know
when to stop
and drink and drink until
i drown and drown -
and all the bitterness
is still here -
it's always here -
because it has saturated
my bones.
alliyah's poetry album
113 posts in this topic.
-
-
[and i think i have
become the well,
and i am overpouring,
and i am overwhelmed,
and this is an ocean
i can't swallow up] -
[but if this is all i get to keep from loss,
then you should know i will hold every single drop.] -
^ bird in my garden on mothers day
may 10, 2026
i am skeptical of signs, and i am hesitant to hope,
but today i am desperately drunk with grief, and
beg the cardinal to come and roost in my lungs,
to pull out her feathers and build a nest here,
to let me transcribe love out of bird song,
so i can pretend i remember how it feels to breathe.
may 11, 2026
"hope is the thing with feathers" - Emily Dickinson
if grief is the tide closing in,
then hope is the thing with feathers,
that waits all winter long to remember how to sing,
but when she does, she tells you about a boat
that refuses to be sunk, and an anchor
that holds-fast against every weight of the current
she tells you that though many waters rage
they can not catch those who live in the sky.
and when you hear her song,
you have a choice - to believe,
or to drown. -
more and more and more and more
may 20, 2026
i can't actually talk about you;
because the words are somewhere
twist-tied into my rib cage and i'm afraid
if these flowers tumble out, their roots
will rip out whatever has been holding me
together. so i don't talk about you or the flowers,
i let you sit quiet where you are, cradled in
all the unsaid grief that doesn't have anywhere to go.
i will comment about the rain, i will nod at the clouds,
and i will tell them i'm doing okay when they ask
for a weather-report, but quiet-ly, holy-ly, broken-ly
i am holding my breath whenever i notice the sun shining
because i am afraid of knowing where the light goes -
and i am achingly afraid that you will always be unsaid
and that one day these twisted roots of you and me
will be so intertwined and grafted into one another,
that this will mean that i am no more or you are no more,
and i would rather drown than disappear
and i am willing to drown if it means you will not disappear
but deep down i suspect that the horizon
where flowers are meant to grow
is very far from here. -
my mom told me she thinks about you every day,
but i'm not sure if that's supposed to comfort me,
because this is all i think of every day now, and every hour,
and every minute, and in-between i'm still thinking of you,
and the only time i'm not, it's to remind my feet to walk,
and my lungs to breathe, and even then you are every step
and every breath here. everything-everything and everything still.
may 29, 2026
i forget what the spring feels like
until one morning in the dead of winter
i hear the cardinal singing - bright and desperate -
her song declares the sun is warm,
the nest is ready, and that this winter too
will end. i do not believe a single word -
but i am compelled to sing along. -
i keep time according to loss now, because everything else moves too quick - and i am still standing still, and i don't want you to get any further away
june 19, 2026
i know in my body what day it is before
i ever notice the number on the calendar
in the same way you anticipate the sun
and shift your body to wince
right before the alarm blares in the morning air
and i want to go back to sleep
i want to keep my eyes shut tight
i want to pretend it is tomorrow
but even more, i want to pretend it is 6 months and 1 day ago
i want to pretend i can still sleep soundly
i want to pretend i believe the sun will rise again
but you are not here and i know it achingly
in every cell of my body, in every breath, and in every minute,
the absence is like a cave i have folded into
and nothing else is here
and i am not good at pretending
so i hold my breath for 30 days
and then try to remember how to breathe
but one never really learns how to drown easily
the water just sweeps in all at once
until eventually the sea is the sky
and your eyes close
and the sun draws near
and maybe you are here.grieving, but okay -
june 19, 2026
half a year
seems like an awfully long time to nurse a wound,
a long time to carry something heavy,
a long time to hold your breath.
but if all i have to give you is my time,
you can have it all, forever and always and after that.
because you are not a scar, or a heavy rock, or a breath caught -
you are a reflection of light catching the color of my love,
you are the strong part in my voice,
you the hope i hold for heaven.
you are everything, and then
a little more than that.
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