Gum
Somewhere along the way, I stepped on grief, stuck to the bottom of my favorite shoes. I wear them often and my footprint shows your absence. The gunk is hairy now, and cracked and battered, but hasn’t peeled and I chew on the idea that you might’ve tried a bite if the weed was strong enough. I heard that it was pills. We’re all still having trouble swallowing anything. I imagine a world without swallowing now. Just blowing bubbles. Chewing gum. Sour Apple.
1art by Pragna Gaddamedi (@prgs.jpeg)
Poetry Tip of the Day!
Death and I have a weird relationship—as I’m sure is the case with most people. It’s never been something I was afraid of, and this doesn’t translate well to the grieving process. This poem was a way for me to navigate those alien feelings. I feel loss, I feel absence, but I don’t have an association with grief yet. In a way, I feel privileged by this, but I can’t help but feel like something is broken inside. Or at least the loss doesn’t manifest as clearly as it does for others. I don’t know if there is a right way to grieve, but this is how I do it. I miss him. I didn’t have the words for him during his life, but these are the ones he left me with. I just know there’s more gum and less pain where he is now.
beast