Swamp

All of this is to say
I’m having the kind of day 
where I break a dish and stand 
over the kitchen sink staring
at the two irreparable halves.
Willing myself to feel anything 
other than this.

There is no longer a woman
in my body. Just this screaming child
Who does not listen. 
She only wants. And wants. And wants.
Stubborn in her devotion.

And he is still gone. 
And grief is a swamp that sinks 
much deeper than you’d expect.
And I’m still here. I still remember him.

— Swamp, Clementine von Radics
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