"They are going to hurt you just the same.
Come sit with me here."
I hold its hand tight.
And watch the scars appear.
"Why do you want to tell them?
Being a burden like you is a sin"
It wipes my tears dry.
But its fingers inflame my skin.
"Can you just stop?
They're tired of you."
I love how it cradles my face.
Leaving it bruised and blue.
"They obviously don't want to be with you.
Could you be more clueless?"
I walk back to it reluctantly.
It lacerates me with every loving caress.
"Why can't you stop listening to it?"
"Why push us away?"
Because it's my grief, my hurt, my rage.
I'm afraid I deserve it, at the end of the day.
[Through every phase of life, grief becomes a steady constant in some of our lives. So much so that we end up finding comfort only in its company. We close the doors in the face of hope, for it has betrayed us, and make our way back to our couch, to find solace in the arms of grief and despair, our fatal but familiar evils.]