Grief Becomes Me

Grief is a funny thing. It has this tendency to linger like stale cigarette smoke. Long after the deed is done, here it is, grief in all it’s fucking glory, sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Causing bile to rise in my throat and sweat to pearl on my skin. “Keep it together, don’t …

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The Weight of Make-Believe

Sometimes I get overwhelmed with anxiety about things that don’t even exist. Waking up at three in the morning with a heaviness on my chest, as though I’m trapped below an invisible block of despair.
Despair over things that don’t exist.