dear grief – 17


You’re the pair of jeans,
with a hole through my knees,
always comfortable,
never outgrowable
no matter what’s lurking beneath.

You’re the gnash of my teeth,
the weight in my feet,
the scar tissue,
dragging and chewable,
inflamed and raw cheek.

What ever do you seek,
preying on the weak,
crumbling hearts,
of people already apart,
left humbled, rubbled and meek

W.E.

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