Wrung out, cried out and feeling the dull ache of ‘miss you Charles.’
Not wanting to get out of bed. But I do.
Not wanting to run. But I do.
Nothing I can grab onto. Sinking.
I want to fix this. But I can’t.
Trying to get out of my own head. But stuck.
Trying to get things done. So unproductive.
Trying to feel normal. Impossible.
Thinking of ways to jumpstart myself. No energy.
Try to straighten my bent posture. I need a crowbar.
Talking to the air. It doesn’t talk back.
Begging for a sign. I get nothing.
Feeling that ugly, naked, empty grief.
No sugar coating it. Hiding it. Or stuffing it.
Riding it out.
Tomorrow is another day. It will be brighter.
Support group? You bet.