I talked to my mother and God, once.
They both held me by my face.
God tells me,
"Child, your grief is only yours to grieve. The quieter, the shorter."
My mother says,
"Grieve loudly. Then, it won't last forever."

Neither of them know
How this grief is not mine.
And how i pried it off your hands, when you left.

And how I would let it strangle me by the neck
If it felt the ways your hands did

And neither of them know
That I would never escape this grief.
How I'll cradle it forever
As the last thing I have, left of you.