I’ve known Grief for 15 years, now.
She lived with me:
a clingy lover stealing my blankets,
demanding all of my attention,
abusing me behind closed doors.
I was a loyal companion to her through it all,
holding onto her as she heaved and wailed all hours of the day and night,
skipping classes in high school to sit with her outside on the grassy hill,
taking the razors out of her fingers and cajoling her to eat when she was faint with hunger,
staying home to take care of her while all my friends were having fun.
I held onto the belief that enough pure love, determination and faith could fix everything
given enough time.
I was wrong.
I was the enabler, the exhausted martyr,
pouring all of me into Grief
when there was no way to fill her up.
I remember the day I looked her in the face
as she was flooding her despair,
the knife in her hands,
and I saw that all this time,
it was me she had been hurting,
my wrists she held the blade against,
I left her.
That very moment.
I walked out of the cold bathroom
and ignored her bawling tantrum.
That was almost two years ago.
She still comes around sometimes,
pounding at my door in the middle of the night
pleading for me to take her back,
promising and threatening,
screaming and crying,
and there are still moments where my compassionate soul
wants to sacrifice itself for her again.
But she is not, and will never be
my lover anymore.