How the softness of grief gives way to anger.
There is no crying but there is this feeling.
It sits nestled deep within my chest, an awkward ache I don't quite know what to do with.
I pace the room but I cannot walk it off.
It's visceral, this feeling.
My whole body is alive with longing.
I am charged by my missing, frustration pulsating around my sytem and I cannot expel my exasperation.
My chest is tight, grief a claustrophobia.
There is no outlet even though there is no room left inside to hold this.
You are gone and I am livid, and in my anger there is no crying but there is this feeling I cannot rid, an irritation that is akin to an itch I cannot scratch, my fury I can feel it but at the same time I cannot touch it, a paradox, and I sit on the edges of my temper just wanting to reach out and hold you but my hands are empty.
- JBO
