You died on Friday

 on the day we were meant to go to Spain.

Instead of sun and vitamin d, I sat in crushing pain,

Repeatedly asking




over and over again.


Textbook grief: I did it all, those ‘stages’ every one,

And all it really made me do was want to buy a gun.

I bargained for your safe return.

I denied you’d gone away.

I locked the doors, pulled down the blinds,

Turned night-time into day.

Anger, Depression, I did those too,

Then stopped counting after four,

I hated how my grief had become a cliché, nothing more.

Go read a book about your loss,

Go talk and talk some more,

Spend money on a counsellor,

Do yoga, roll about the floor.

I’m told all this will help somehow,

Will help me with my day,

Will give me meaning, make me laugh,

Keep the relentless pain at bay.


What keeps me going is knowing that

one day this has to end,

That eventually, after months and years, my severed-self will mend.

One morning I will just get up and make a cup of tea,

I’ll feed the cat and walk the dog,

Read the paper that is free.

I’ll only realise later on it was a normal day,

My aching chest, my glittering pain,

It faded right away.

Your death scars always will be there,

But older, worn, subdued.

It doesn’t break me anymore,

I’m talking, laughing too,

About who you were

About where I’m now,

About a future where I share

Long tales of you and memories of warm days in the sun.

My mourning has turned golden,

I am living, yes I am.

2 thoughts on “Scars

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