Dealing death at home
Grief poetry, from “spirit world with geoa”
Home. That word’s resonated in her head for a long time now, since before she was born. This word, this place, this space, this fluidity of nothing and everything, of warmth in your skin and beneath your eyeballs and underneath your ribcage, right where the blood forgets to go.
Right where she should be breathing, but instead, it’s shallow distraction, and empty.
Instead she is nothing and everything all at once, she is city skylines and hope eternal, she is sun and stars and the rain falling on your back while you think about running into the night, freedom wracking your brain and throat and culture, but still, no where to go. No feet to move, no destination, no warm hands to reach out and hold you.
Home, she thinks, is the ability to run and stay still
To feel trapped and held, anger and forgetful, forgiveness swelling the soul
To forget the words I told you yesterday, did you hear?
It’s also memories entwining into runes on her skin that she hates laughs loves, hoping they’ll leave when she touches her skin in a moldy shower with soap that smells like ass, a shower too small that she remembers as too big, writing carved into her and the generations up back sideways — home,
touches of purple and queer and eyes, watching
bloody knives and stock market crashes
seeds planted and
Sipping coffee, brown skin shining warmth in the rain/sun, undercut, manbun, tech hoodie, Seattle calling her name, eyes closing, listening, watching
but new and never before
home, but scary and wrong and written in a lanaguage she was supposed to learn, but got scared instead
home, I miss you
have I met you?
I am Death.
she says, eyes turning to see you.
Or a cousin really, like kin fey whispering in your ear while they take your hand into Charon’s boat
Her handshake is warmcold, as you take it, night summer sky with snow on the mountains, her eyes forever deep as you lose yourself yet feel the most grounded calm you have in awhile
Home, she whispers
Have you seen it?
The boat rocks and your breathing steadies, the smell of a restaurant you’ve long forgotten swirling in the warm night air.
i think you’re pretty cool:)