June 1st, 2018

You died a year ago.

Thursday morning,

before the sun peaked over the mountains you called home.

I lay, fast asleep, dreaming of a better day. Because I thought you'd get better.

But I actually didn't think that.

I just wanted that.

My fingers grasped onto that hope so tight until my knuckles were white, I needed you to get better.

Two days before my hopes had been shattered and yet I still clung to the idea that you would best this damn illness. That you would survive. That you'd still be there.

I held the weight of my grief off, even when I was told you were gone.

I held my breath and plunged into the depths of my sadness but I didn't let anyone know that I was drowning, not swimming.

As I starved my body of oxygen I closed my eyes and ignored the burning need.

I would not let them see me cry.

I tied my grief to the bottom of the lake, never letting them see and they took advantage of my false strength and tore me apart.

I was left helpless and maimed but I don't really care. I don't care what they say or do.

Because a year ago you broke my heart and you left me alone.

Left us to fall apart and kill each other.

I know it wasn't your choice to go.

But I wish you could have stayed.