Right of Passage

Torn, a heart laid bare, blown asunder. Hiroshima of the soul.
Waves of incomprehensible, searing hot pain. Bleeding without a speck of blood
on bare wood as your wound widens on the fault line.
The ground rises to meet you and you remain, impossibly upright.
The weight on your chest surely signifies a crack in breast bone,
as you labor for breath
that refuses to regulate.
Sleep eludes, no matter the body's want.
People call, you hear without hearing all the, "so sorry for your loss," calls.
You hide, in plain sight.
The Alice syndrome controls your motion.
The words of the preacher in suit and tie.
The cloying profusion of flowers suffocates and drugs.
The cards come,
from everywhere.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Call me."
"She's at peace now."
"You need to eat."
The clock hands tick in miniscule movements.
I just want her back.
Let me define grief.
Thank you for coming.
The right of passage
was opened by a bullet
one dark summer night.
A rose bud began to bloom
In a little glass by the sink.

Thanks to Tanalee Youngblood for making this photo available freely on @unsplash 🎁 https://unsplash.com/photos/fsdWYNTymjI

This is my 5 minute freewrite.
Here is the link for today:
grief

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art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics

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