i have not written here before, but I write. nothing to publish, but everything is all writing, words.
this is how i feel right now. be gentle. it is translated from my language and while i can write in english i dont quite have the right words for proper translation. unedited, i just need to world to know my grief.
this is how i feel
When i mourn it is made of words. Two lumps of dead meat. When there is no space inside, when all is
All empty, it has to be dark, when it is over and done, just thought it would be wordless. But my hands, my head, has to put it in words, ugly, wet, soaked, endless, everlasting, dirty words. When I am good for nothing, when I shut life closed around me- its words. When tomorrow is endless and empty and destroyed, when he is away from me. There are words still. Lasting ones, that are never up, never up for words. When the muscles of my back can no longer hold me up, when I have lived one third of my life and feel it is enough, when it feels no more as a present, but loss and doom, there are words. There is no grief but that, he left me, he is gone from me. Nothing more but void. Life. Shell. Hair in my eyes, head on chest, chin to floor, a lamp in a lost partyroom with yellow wallpaper, passed weddings, life, soup, steak and icecream, forgotten. Words I cant be rid of, pouring out of me, over, done, nothing more. Mine no more. On the floor, a lump of dead meat with bones in it, without him.
this is how i feel right now. be gentle. it is translated from my language and while i can write in english i dont quite have the right words for proper translation. unedited, i just need to world to know my grief.
this is how i feel
When i mourn it is made of words. Two lumps of dead meat. When there is no space inside, when all is
All empty, it has to be dark, when it is over and done, just thought it would be wordless. But my hands, my head, has to put it in words, ugly, wet, soaked, endless, everlasting, dirty words. When I am good for nothing, when I shut life closed around me- its words. When tomorrow is endless and empty and destroyed, when he is away from me. There are words still. Lasting ones, that are never up, never up for words. When the muscles of my back can no longer hold me up, when I have lived one third of my life and feel it is enough, when it feels no more as a present, but loss and doom, there are words. There is no grief but that, he left me, he is gone from me. Nothing more but void. Life. Shell. Hair in my eyes, head on chest, chin to floor, a lamp in a lost partyroom with yellow wallpaper, passed weddings, life, soup, steak and icecream, forgotten. Words I cant be rid of, pouring out of me, over, done, nothing more. Mine no more. On the floor, a lump of dead meat with bones in it, without him.
Oh, sweetie. 
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