I buried her last night. It was the most awful, gut-wrenching experience of my life, and I have witnessed the burial of others before now
I sat with her as she struggled for her life. She had been sick, sick from the hopelessness, and deserted by those she had hoped would stay. I watched her soul crawl out of her, and it looked pale like life had been sucked out of it
“They called me what I am not” those were her words to me with tearful eyes. What did they call you and who called you? I asked
Those I had hoped will carry me; they called me draining, they called me problematic, they swore I was cursed, and they never want to be part of it. They mocked how outlandish and bizarre my pain is; they say all I do is take from them, and I cannot give what I used to give and they need It, so they have looked elsewhere for it.
She wept like the ocean when announcing its presence. Her pain choked and strangled her; I tried to give a helping hand, but it was late.
I watched as her soul bled out what was left of it, I witness her pain strangle her, and I saw the space hopefulness left in her, being occupied by hopelessness.
I watched her wail in agony; she held onto her chest, but there was nothing to hold onto. She was wrapped in anxiety, and loneliness, like a wrap of shawarma, and was cloth in shame.
I buried the girl in me. She said her goodbyes in spite of the pain. I tore her clothes and unwrap her. I buried the part of me that clung to things, I buried the girl in me who was birthed as a result of my trauma. I buried the child in me who has clung to me for years hoping I would heal her.
I buried her yesterday. I wept for what could have been, for what will never be, and what was taken away from me. I grieved her because I loved her, for where there is great love, there is great grief.
