3

Stuck

I have driven past the cemetery where Ella is buried countless times since my last visit. Part of me is ashamed to say I don’t remember when I last stood there and looked down at her stone, her name etched in granite. Jason and I even bought some metal flowers to put at her grave two weeks ago, and we still haven’t gone. A few times Jason has even asked me if I wanted to go, and I’ve always replied, I do but not now. Its hard to explain the way I feel about losing Ella, and about this second year without her. All I know is I feel different.

I find myself saying cliches a lot more. Life goes on. It sucks that she’s not here but it is what it is. I find myself accepting her absence. Part of that acceptance is REALLY hard to swallow for me. Maybe I’m in some sort of denial or shock again. Lately there has been two cases of infant death and stillborn –two sets of parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents and siblings lives that are changed forever. When I heard about the first birth I cried. I felt sick all over again. When I heard about the second one, I just froze. I thought about this sweet baby and family constantly. Quietly angry and annoyed. Annoyed sounds strange, but that the only word I can use to describe my very agitated state. I could not cry though. I still haven’t really cried. Part of me really wants to dig in deep to the grief that is forever a part of my soul…part of me wants to move past it…kind of like moving it from the forefront of my perspective and life to the background. It will always be part of the incomplete picture of my life, just no longer the focal point.

I remember when I was still in the very beginning of my grief journey and I begrudged parents who seemed so callous at the loss of their babies…I wanted them to stay in that devastated place forever–with me. Because thats where I was, I didn’t understand how they could really laugh, or how a day could go by without tears. Now, I understand to a degree, but I don’t really want to.

What I am comfortable with is breaking down. Being raw, weeping. Missing Ella so bad it hurts. Looking at her pictures and her footprints. Writing sad songs about her.

What I am not comfortable with is NOT thinking about her every hour of every day. Going days without tears. Not mentioning her name to my husband daily. Not feeling some sense of righteous indignation. Not feeling anything much. Not feeling angry. Accepting. Moving forward…not moving ON.

Having my son Beck is part of my journey. He is the reason I can no longer immerse myself in mourning for my daughter 24-7. He makes me smile. He fills a hole in my heart only children can. He genuinely brings me joy.

I don’t want Ella to only be thought of in tears. That’s so hard for me these days. Almost like a sad chapter to our lives that is over, and people just remember it as a hard time, that has now passed. When an unborn baby dies, or even a young baby part of the devastation is that you have no memories with their faces in them. Only sad ones. Only memories of eyes closed, skin cold, heart stopped. It makes remembering and honoring them very painful and difficult. You have no heartwarming phrases of “remember when she used to do this, or she loved puppies, and ice cream.” No one can say remember when. Only me. I am really the only one who knew her weight and her person. I, and I alone carried her in life and death. That is such a loneliness. The magnitude of my desire to remember her, and love her is at the highest velocity emotionally. But I don’t know how to deal with it right now. Part of me wishes to be immersed in tears and sadness…it was good for my soul. It felt natural and comfortable to me, as strange as it sounds. Life going on, and no tears feels unnatural to me.

When you are young and have not experienced loss, you say to yourself if my parents died, I would kill myself…or I would become an alcoholic and not know what to do, or how to handle my grief. Then you get married and you play out the same scenario in your head, and you think maybe you would just drop off the grid, become a hermit, and possibly lose 40 lbs from grief. You would tell yourself you would waste away to nothing. Then you have children, and you say to yourself, I would SURELY die from the agonizing pain of losing my child. I would possibly lose my faith, I would isolate myself, I would never get out of bed again, and yes I most likely would self-medicate my imagined unbearable pain by becoming some kind of addict.

But this is what I have seen. My Grandma wakes up every morning without the warmth of my Grandpas body beside her in bed. She eats without him. She carries on without his presence…she goes on living. She fights to keep her joy. But the sun is still rising and setting, and she has to go on living…not just existing without him. She has to make her life count still by serving her family and loving the best way she knows how. And she loves immensely. My mom goes on living without one of her parents there to cheer her on. She was most like my Grandpa, and he lives on in her intense personality. She raises children and now grandchildren without her father looking on in pride. She loves the best way she knows how, and she loves immensely. I wake up every morning without my daughter, in her place instead a son. A son who would not be here without her death. A fact my mind can never reconcile. I eat, exercise, pray, talk, laugh, and enjoy my son without her presence here. How can that be possible? The young me, the old me would not know the woman I am today. And thats what is so difficult for me. I want to always identify with and feel the intense loss of any parent who loses a child. But I cannot stay there anymore. This makes me so sad. Acceptance is harder to feel than agony and anger.

Once again I’m not sure if anyone will be able to understand this mess of words and heart–but I hope it touches someone. And maybe this clumsy articulation will be the words that you’ve been unable to speak, but always wanted to say.

3

I don’t play that song anymore…

The other day I was thinking about Ella, and the song Tears in Heaven came to mind. I remembered that is was about Eric Claptons son, but I couldn’t remember exactly what had happened and where the song came from. My curiosity led me to his wiki page, and I read the tragic story of a sweet little boy gone too soon. At the end of my reading I came across a quote from Clapton–and his explanation for not playing that song anymore. He said too much time had past and he didn’t feel he could convey the song in the same spirit in which he wrote it. He was devastated back then, and he wasn’t so much now. Loss of a child thirty years later…He also said he didn’t want to go back to that place.

I’ve thought about this a lot recently. The two songs I’ve written about Ella are now played far and few between. They bring me back to a very dark and sad place, a place that I don’t really have the luxury of living in now that I have another child to care for. The other night I got a request to play climbing clouds, and I actually turned it down, I said it was too sad and I didn’t want to go there. Its very strange to me that we can choose to “go there” when it comes to grief. The mind can lock things away and put walls up around certain memories and thoughts that are too painful to feel constantly. My grief for Ella is always there, but I do not always choose to dwell on it.

Recently I had a heart-to-heart with a very close family member, during which she told me that she was confused by my appearance of being ok, and this blog where I continually confess I am not. She didn’t understand how I could feel both. How I can function and smile, and be in so much pain underneath the surface. I am a complete paradox. If you have not experienced a life-shattering death…I can understand your confusion. To put things bluntly, sometimes I don’t want to think of my daughter and be sad. Sometimes I don’t want to think about what happened at all….but I do think about it all the time. I am resentful of my grief at times, while at the same time thankful for the opportunity to love. What I am struggling with is the definitions. I don’t want my daughter to always make me cry. I don’t want her name to illicit tears of sorrow and remorse. I don’t want to think about her helpless precious body….

I wish I had funny stories about her. I wish I could say “remember how she always used to do this…” I wish that there were other ways of feeling close to her. That is what I am struggling with currently. How do I love her and honor her and think about her and smile? I want to. There was a time that I would’ve slapped myself silly for thinking such a thing…but I am realizing that I don’t want Ellas life to just be something sad that happened in my past. How do I carry her on with me in life? Not only death…

Even when I smile, even when I laugh, even when I see pink tutus and hear a little girls voice speak momma–there is a current of unfulfilled desire. Sometimes I can handle it, other times I can’t. But she is always here with me in my heart. This is new territory for me…and it’s scary. It’s acceptance in a lot of ways. It’s faith. Faith that this is not the end of the story. I haven’t been ready for that faith or perspective until now. I am desperate for it. I will never understand why she is not here, but I am thankful that she wasn’t taken from me in a brutal way. Ellas gift to me has always been compassion…I know there are FAR worse ways to lose a child.

My words aren’t exactly coherent or graceful now, but I feel the need to begin to unpack some of these realizations, and fears. Not a lot of time has passed, not even two years since her death. But so much has changed. Our family has changed. Seasons have changed, and I have changed. Ever since her death I’ve not only mourned for her, but for myself. I mourn for the person I used to be. The woman who didn’t lay in bed every night playing out every scenario you can fathom of all the horrible things that could happen. I miss the old me so much. I miss my carefree spirit. I miss how oblivious I was. I miss not worrying. I miss being able to live in the moment. Mentally I haven’t occupied a single moment in the present…I’m bound to look behind and wonder why, and bound to look ahead in fear. I can’t go on like this, missing out on the joys of the simple things in life that make it worthwhile. I see this about me, but I don’t know how to change. I just know that I need to. Because time is flying….and I don’t want to look back and realize that I spent my whole life living in my past, and worrying about my future.

So I’m navigating. Learning to be grateful. Learning that love is always constant, but does not always surface in the same ways. I am realizing how very human I am, and how my need for a great big God is the all encompassing desire of my heart.

I am missing you always Ella, and I am learning to celebrate your life in joy and seasons. I still miss you terribly. You are the tear and sigh behind every smile, but I want you to be the smile behind every tear and sigh…You are both my sweet darling daughter. I love you, and I am learning that I don’t need to prove that anymore…

5

Here again

Hi Ella,

I’m here again in the midnight hour. I’ve carried you with me through out the day, in little thoughts, little glances at your things, little what-ifs, and little sighs. Everything is so quiet now. I hate the word quiet. I hate the quietness. Not in noise…or sounds…or music. The quietness of my soul. The quietness in never hearing the “right” words, the quietness in never hearing your voice. I doubt you ever wonder where you are, if I am still grieving you and missing you–but if you ever did, I still am. The second year is different than the first. Less grief on the surface, less exploding into tears and tantrums…maybe. The other night all of my rage and sadness came flying out at your father. I attacked him with the brutality of all my pain. I was a mess of flying limbs and tears…cussing and screaming and just utterly out of control. I know this would not make you happy in any way…but I don’t know how to grieve for you in a clean and neat sort of way. You meant so much to me, and that is never going to change. 

A few good things have happened lately, in the fact that I don’t think I’m angry at God per say anymore. I’m just angry at life. I feel like I’ve learned that God heals our hearts and our souls…but not our bodies. Outwardly we are wasting away, but inwardly we are being renewed day by day–I think I kind of get that now. A few bad things have happened too though. All the fear and anxiety that I had while I was pregnant with your brother caused me to lose my appetite completely..I hardly gained 15lbs during my pregnancy. Now that he is here and safe my appetite has come back with a vengeance.  But I binge eat now, when I feel at rock bottom. I’ve never been a binge eater in my life…it’s very different for me. The other night when your dad and I were fighting I ate a whole box of chocolates. I ate them like they were literally going to fill the ginormous void, and magically take me away from my cold reality. They never do. 

Another bad thing about my grief lately is feeling alone. Your dad grieves for you in a different way than I do, and that is very painful. It’s painful to explain my grief to him. I hate doing that. I hate the fact that he can’t be in my head and my soul…I hate that alone-ness. 

There are lots of little triggers that make me think of you through out the day. Sometimes they are happy…like when your brother smiles at me, and for a second I see you. Some triggers are incredibly disgusting, and gut-wrenchingly grotesque. I feel sick that they remind me of you, and I’ve never really dared to say them out loud. Sometimes raw meat reminds me of you…because of how pink and fragile your skin was, and the fact that we had to keep you on ice. This picture is horrific to me. Little baby dolls remind me of you. These triggers are very traumatic for me. I usually immediately tell myself that you are not that helpless frail little baby I held, but for some reason I can never imagine you now as you are. I hate that. I told your Gigi the other day that I only use my imagination for evil, and I fear that is true. It’s not fair that I have to imagine you. Maybe someday I will see my imagination as a gift again, but for now it is held ransom by my mortal fears and the trauma of losing you. 

I know that you know so much more than I do. You are already in glory, and light, and love. You don’t even need me or miss me at all…and I am glad that you are complete. I don’t have to worry about you not breathing at night, like I do with your brother. I don’t have to worry about you meeting the wrong boys, or having your heartbroken. I don’t have to worry about losing you to childhood cancer, like so many parents. I don’t worry about you, but sometimes I wish I could. 

If I’m honest the trigger that has sent me here tonight is the pain of feeling like you were never here. I often think about what I would grab if there was a house fire, and I am always depressed at the only things I would have to grab of you are your footprints and handprints. A parent should have more. It’s hard still to see baby girls. I cried at your cousins dedication because I knew I’d never get to see yours. I hate bows. I hate dresses. I hate pink. I hate it all right now. I really hate it when people talk about these things without any sensitivity or mention of you. I hate it when people act like you were just something sad that happened to us. It makes me feel alone, and a little crazy. Crazy to love and miss someone so much–someone that no one ever remembers or acknowledges. My family talks about you all the time, and we all still cry for you–and I know I should be grateful to at least have them. I am.

 sometimes I wish others would be able to slip on this shawl of pain for a second, so they would know the burden and sadness I carry with me always. Maybe they would say less, and listen more….

 

2

The times that mattered the most…

For all of my grief journey I have been carried by love. God has sent angels here on earth to comfort us (Jason and I) as we mourn the loss of our firstborn Ella. We have received this love and comfort like beggars starved for bread. It was and is essential to us, like the air that we breath. This love, understanding, and compassion has fueled our empty bodies and sown up our broken bones so we can go on living, and running our race. There have been countless times when I failed to realize, either blinded by my own grief, or blinded by my own neglect of who was truly there all along. Past blogs have been about the incredible hurt, rejection and disappointment I felt from the few who could not give me all that I asked for. Why did I focus on them? Why could I not see the MANY people who grieved with me, and listened to me, and helped me along? For whatever reason, my perspective has shifted and I feel morose for all the time I spent on being disappointed in the few people who could not understand my pain. My past perspective was most likely inevitable…but I  share this with you because maybe for you it doesn’t have to be. When you are disappointed and hurt by someones inability to love you in the way that you need, focus on the people who do get you, and Do love you. I failed to do this fully until now. It is a perspective that time has given me.

I have compiled a list of people, too many to count, and pictures of the times and instances that mattered the most to me. These actions, words, and gifts meant literally the WORLD to me. It would be a fallacy for me to walk on and never acknowledge the actions and love that YOU have all bestowed upon a broken couple. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for not fearing to feel your own heart break. Your compassion is courageous.

The Times That Mattered The Most

-when you sent me two ornaments, one of a mom holding a girl for Ella, and the other of a mom holding a boy for Beck
-when you sent me flowers every month in honor of Ella’s memory
-when you bought me a jar of 1,000 white buttons just like the song I wrote
-when you made a daisy flower crown in honor of your niece, and when you wear it on days you especially miss her
-when you randomly buy me white roses from the grocery store when you can tell I’m having a hard day
-when you told me about your miscarried sibling and how you long for the day to meet them
-when you text me ever so often and simply ask how I am doing, for real
-when you made my songs about suffering and loss so beautiful-you moved my soul
-when you call my mom and ask her how she is doing
-when you called me and left many messages of encouragement…you never spared me your own tears which are so precious to me
-when you continually listen to me pour out my heart and you never judge me
-when you told me you understand my sadness better now because of your healthy children
-when you left flowers at her grave
-when you cried over her grave
-when you wrote a beautifully vulnerable email to my husband sharing with him your life’s greatest loss
-when you made a dozen clouds and gave them to me…full of inspiration and love
-when you went out of your way to tell me on your wedding day that you missed her too, and when you placed a rose on your table just for her
-when you sent me flowers on her angelversary, and how you always tell me it’s ok to feel whatever I am feeling
-when you let me dump all of my ugly thoughts and feelings on you time and time again over the phone
-when you texted me after you had your little girl, and you had the sensitivity to ask me how I was doing
-when you showed me the bracelet you made and wore with Ella’s name on it
-when you helped heal my body and spirit with your guidance through yoga
-when you reached out to Jason and I and let us stay in your home, and blessed us with many gifts…a keurig and some amazing books about still birth to name a few
-when you told me I was brave
-when you shared with me your wisdom on life, grief and eternity
-when you took my story and made it into the most beautiful art
-when you put yourself in my shoes and envisioned exactly what I felt when I wrote my song kerosene
-when you sent me such a powerful and personal painting inspired by my song and by Ella
-when you, so many of you share your precious babies brief lives with me
-when you care about my grief amidst your own for your teenage daughter gone way too soon
-when you kept reaching out to a stranger via fb, then eventually meeting me and listening to my heartache
-when you always curl up on my lap when I am feeling completely devastated
-when you buy me little angels from the thrift store, they are Ella’s angels
-when you shared your poem of your own despair and questions regarding Ella’s death
-when you carry our sadness despite your own depression, mental illness, and homelessness
-when you made me a photo album of pictures of when I was pregnant with Ella
-when you send little gifts and tokens that remind you of Ella
-when you had custom made decorations with lyrics from climbing clouds on them
-when you two helped me make my memory wall with Ella’s clothes and blankets
-when you sent me a collection of bible verses about grief that I look at every day
-when you cried the tears that I couldn’t cry when I was in shock
-when you mention her name at every family gathering

-when you made a custom piece of art for Beck’ room and included a white rose for Ella

-when you choreographed a beautiful dance to climbing clouds in honor of my family and Ella

-when you made dozens of precious clouds for my album cover and let me keep them all-each one reminds me of her, you gave me a precious symbol I will treasure my whole life

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3

Anecdote

Sometimes after the passing of time, someone you love can sort of be turned into an anecdote. “Grandpa in heaven,” or “so and so always liked this,” or “I bet Ella is so happy in heaven.” The tenderness and quiet honor that people once observed seems to be a thing of the past. Now, when people talk about Ella…it’s just so matter of fact. I do not harbor any bitterness or resentment towards people, but I do not know how to react. I cannot feign the indifference that time has brought to others. I cannot feign the acceptance that others have chosen to embrace. I am still her mother, and I have not accepted her death.

The other night I felt the clouds of grief descend upon me, and the tears would not stop. I don’t know why it’s difficult for me to admit these feelings and tears to others and even to my husband. The words struggle to come out. The truth is–at times I am completely submerged in a sorrowful anguish. My heart breaks open anew continually, and all of my memories, regrets, questions and broken hope come spilling out. I feel lost again, when all I want is to feel found and safe..even for a moment.

I thought that after Beck came, I would feel infinitely more grateful to God. I thought that that gratitude would somehow propel me to a greater intimacy and closeness to Him. Beck is here, and although I am grateful–I still struggle with a faith that is to me, so fragile. Sometimes it even seems a facade. I don’t know why I am still ignorantly trying to “figure God out.” Trying at times to stuff him back into the box of my past understandings…how I long for that child like trust and naiveté. I am trying. Trying to do the things that I think I should, and the things I think God wants me to do. Read my bible, memorize and meditate on scripture. The truth is, I do not know what the truth is..and I don’t think thats good enough. I wrestle with God on lots of fronts, but I really desire peace. I wait vainly for a prompt or secret message that will suddenly make life and all it’s tragedies “click.” I know that Jesus is the answer…and that He was a man of suffering and sorrows. I know this. I like this Jesus. But I still don’t understand Him.

A relationship without trust must not have any love in it, and that scares me. I cannot reconcile my former faith and foundation, the death of my daughter, and the birth of my son. I don’t know why this is so challenging for me, but it is. I can pin-point the time of my doubts and the start of the extreme testing of my faith.

After Jason and I found out that Ella had no heartbeat, we were required to go to the hospital and get an ultrasound for a second opinion. We called my entire family, and had everyone praying. As we went into that room, the ultrasound tech searched, but found no heartbeat. My dear family…sisters, brother, mom, dad and brother-in-law all came in the room. My mom asked the tech to leave so they could pray over me and Ella. She left, and my family prayed the most fervent prayers I have ever heard in my life. They begged God, petitioned God, recited scriptures to God, rallied their faith, wept their tears and asked. Then the tech came back in and checked again….and still no heartbeat.

Before Ella died I had made the habit of reciting the Lords prayer everyday…”Our Father who art in heaven hollowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…” I cannot pray this prayer right now. I am afraid of Gods will. I wish I was more godly, and a stronger person…but I am shook to the core, and my foundations are laid bare. All I can cling to is that God is doing a work in me, and that He will finish it. I cannot change my own heart, and this current excavation is incredibly ugly and broken to me.

6

Numb

Dear Ella,

I don’t know if I have the courage to be honest right now. In fact, I know I don’t. I am consciously blocking thoughts of you out of my mind…because I fear my worst fear happening all over again. Does this make me untrue?I feel so cheated, and ill-equipped to cope with the life I have been given. I don’t know when it happened, but at some point I hit, or thought I hit “pause” on my grief button. I entered a strange survival mode. Survival mode is a lot like living like a robot. I wake up each day and force a lonely emptiness on my mind, as I will my consciousness to a barren and wasted mind-scape of nothingness. The first thing I see everyday is your cloud hanging above my bed, then I see the dress you never wore, and the quilt that never kept you warm. I see, but the eyes of my heart are dead and unregistering as I begin to will the pain, acceptance and even reality away. I build my wall of resistance and I try to defy my grief by convincing myself it is better to feel nothing. Numb. I’ve become numb after growing so weary of feeling every little thing so intensely. The pain of feeling constantly judged, the pain of feeling like I’m never enough, the pain of my pain going unrecognized, validated or even spoken of. I have grown so tired of the pain of not having my should be almost one year old baby girl here with me. Death denies me my motherly right everyday, would you fault me for wanting to deny it back? My pain and tears have been replaced with numbness and fear. My mind oscillating between the two as I try so very hard to feign indifference. I don’t know how to function when my only frame of reference for being a mother is birthing and burying a dead baby.

And I think to myself, Ella…I wish I could have heard you cry. But then I realize how selfish that is, and that your first breaths were not cries–in fact I’m sure you opened your mouth and either a song came out, or a laugh. Not here though. Why is it that the thing we do after we draw our first breaths is to cry? It seems sometimes that there is nothing more to life than that first cry. These walls and this “get through the day” mentality will all come tumbling down in a matter of time…with the birth of your brother. I see the tidal wave of hope and also of renewed despair and grief. A wave that will haunt me for all that we’ve lost again..but that will also soothe with new life. I hate living in this almost realized paradox of life and death. Soon the floodgates will open, and my heart will be open again to feel the intense love for another one of my children. I know I cannot keep it out, and I do not wish to–but for now it’s all damned up. I am broken. I am surviving. I have lost track of how many times I have spoken to the silence, and to your dad “I just want both of them.” I want to have my little Ella, and I want my little prince. I miss you Ella…and I know I am going to miss you in new ways that I didn’t think were possible when Beck is finally here. I am so scared to miss you more…but I want to. I am afraid I will not be able to stand what is coming…so for now I wait and watch fearfully and numbly…I know that this will all change as the new waves of joy and grief are coming. 

 

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4

Another Mother must bury her Son

 

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Today I am carrying someone else’s burden. Earlier this week my mom called to let me know that a former classmate and nephew of some dear friends of ours was dying in a hospital in Miami. Hearing the news really broke my heart, and I found myself unable to really focus on anything but praying for him and his family. I prayed fervently all day..that he would know he was loved by the God of the universe, and that angels would be sent to comfort him and his family. I prayed for healing. I prayed that his parents would not have to bury their son. I prayed as a mom who has lost a child. I’ve mentioned in other posts that my relationship with God has changed since Ella’s death tremendously. I no longer ask for selfish things that I want. I don’t ask God for protection, or blessings, or good health…I only ask Him the things that I truly believe in faith He will answer. I believe that God wants to hold Alex more than anything…that He wants to heal him from the inside out. I prayed for Alex to accept that love, regardless of his life or death. I know from experience that God doesn’t answer every prayer the way we want Him to or the way we expect–so I’ve changed the way I pray. I pray knowing that God is able, but for whatever reason He is not always willing. 

I believe that God did answer my prayer to cover Alex with love and warmth and light…even though he has died. His death has shook me again. In three weeks or less I will give birth to a baby boy–God willing, and Alex’s death has made me realize all over again that I do not have control. Alex was someone’s son, someones nephew, someones brother…he was carried with love in the womb, just as I am carrying my son. I can’t help but think about my son when I think about Alex. It breaks my heart knowing that I am powerless to save my son from disease, cancer, heartbreak, and even death itself. Finally, I am at the place where I can at least admit that Ella’s death spared her from knowing pain–and this does give me a little comfort sometimes. But today I am carrying his mothers burden –she had to watch her 26 year old baby die. I can’t imagine going through 26 years of things, of clothes he wore just last week, of sheets, and pictures, and memories. I hate that I cannot take away his mothers pain. I can only bear it, and all I can pray today is “Lord carry them.”

 

The picture above is of my sister Brooke at Ella’s first Birthday. We released lanterns and it was very special and symbolic of letting go all over again. I want to share a beautiful poem that she wrote about Ella, and her questions and grief…

 

Are you here with me?
Can you hear my voice….
There is so much noise
Am I one among many, or can you recognize me?
I see a blade of grass, it grew apart from the field

it is shaking in the constant might of the wind

But it has no bend in it, Can you see me standing here?
Surrounded by outstretched limbs and reaching branches, almost as fists shaking in the sky

Angry so angry
Do my words reach you? My whispers in my head, do they matter?

I’m afraid they are meaningless words that float through empty space, and then sink to the soles of my feet
If I had an anchor I would trade my sails in for it any day
Will this wind ever die down? If only my troubled heart could reach you, and rest

Just rest in whatever dose of healing you would lavish on it
All the happy words and easy phrases, shallow unbelieved praises, spoken from uncompassionate faces

Apathetic to any tragic life changes, eager to judge my response to MY personal anguish
There is this ache that burns like an ember resting on your skin

Tearing through layer by layer, melting flesh to reach your bone

And as it restfully burrows in your whole body ignites within as a raging flame, spreading head to toe, heart to head to mouth

What I speak comes as black smoke left from ashes smoldering in a pit
Never will my eyes see a beautiful thing and truly recognize it, or an ugly imperfection without surprise or expectation
You give and take away, but for some reason it feels as though you have stolen from me

From us
I imagine If I extend my hands I could release this frailty of belief and trust and that it would shoot from my hands into your being

And I would know that you know how little I have to hang on to and you would send out your life rafts to rescue this drowning soul