I screamed in the halls of the hospital until my lungs burned and throat was raw. The pain didn't matter because I wasn't dead; and you weren't either. It just wasn't possible, I held you in my arms that very morning, I listened to constant sound of your heartbeat while I laid on your chest and didn't appreciate what would be the last morning I'd have you. But I kept screaming and thrashing because I knew you couldn't really be gone, I knew you were at home waiting for me, I didn't believe the doctors.
I was screaming, this time in the kitchen we shared, surrounded by your clothes and ceramic shards of dishes I slammed into the walls. You weren't waiting for me after I got home for the hospital, or after I woke up the next morning, or when I laid on the couch with the T.V. on, your picture clutched to my chest, and the stained sweatshirt I wouldn't let you wear surrounding my body. I'm angry at you for leaving me.
I'm not screaming, I'm pleading now. With your headstone, with God, with anyone who will listen, even in my own head. I would trade places with your corpse if it meant another second with you, I would go to church ever Sunday if I could just hear you laugh again, I would spend every single second giving to everyone else if I could just hold you in my arms. There's nothing I wouldn't do to bring you back, nothing I wouldn't sacrifice, take my breath, take my memories, take my mind. The only thing I can't bargain is my heart, you took it with you when you left.
I'm screaming. I'm pleading. I'm breaking dishes. I'm silent. I feel like I'm sinking into a lake that has no bottom, the weight of the world is pushing my deeper, like a lead weight resting on every part of body, mind, and soul. I'm reaching out for a hand to pull me up, I'm reaching out for you but I know you can't reach back. So I sink further. I'm not dead but I wish I was. You left a massive hole, a black hole, a hole that's sucking me in. I can't feel you, or hear your voice anymore. You're gone, but I'm still here, drowning.
There's a dull pain that no one tells you about when they describe the 5 stages of grief. I'm not in relentless pain like I was, I'm not struggling to breathe anymore, I don't break the dishes, now I write how about how I used to. I feel your absence when I wake up in our bed alone. I see the hole you left and it's not as terrifying, it doesn't suck me in. No one told me that day in the hospital that I would end up where I am, I made it here and it still hurts. You're gone, but time has proved you never left me.