What does it mean if what I write makes me cry?
Speaks to me of the acceptance I’ve yet to grasp,
tells me of the hope that one day I will?
Grieving, grieving, and more grieving.
All I write contains the word,
the flesh of it on my bones.
But this is the season.
I need not apologize for what is,
what must be,
so that I might live.
I share my love with grief.
I share my joy with grief.
They nestle together in the chambers of my heart.
I am willing to pay the price.
I cannot bear with less;
Less truth,
less reality,
less love,
less of all things good, noble, and true.
