I am not some lesson to be learned.
Some hideous example of
“what to do, what not to do.”
My writing is not a compendium on grief.
Forwards, backwards, inside out,
I leave holes, gaps, questions unanswered.
I am not a litany of cliches.
Each trigger cuts me sideways.
Each reminder brings to the forefront
any muted emotions.
No metaphor can capture.
It is a mere solitary experience.