hell is a competition
my sister tells me that I need therapy
to work though the grief that stains my soul
but I spill my trauma to the internet
ignoring the ethics of the corporate spiral
that monetizes our hell
is this just a twisted stage of grief?
guilt playing wingman to bargaining
wondering what death touched words will drop from my fingers
I'll whisper it you
reveal the secrets that make my mother cry
She was 8 years old.
She was two weeks away from being 20.
He had just reached 21.
She didn't jump at 23, he didn't crash his car at 25.
But he had a gun at 21.
I broke speed limits so that I could watch my grandmother die and I still went to work the next day.
I am 21 years old and I'm told my grief is powerful.
Part of me dies a little inside. Part of me already was.
I guess I always knew that hell was a competition.