The box of tissue says “I’m there when you’re sad.”
And I do believe it is sincere
Perfectly packaged for convenient comfort
Suitable for times of casual sorrow
But when real grief comes – oh you better be ready
That kind that cleaves your heart in pieces
Pummels your guts
And grinds your bones to sand
You know — The kind that makes
the thought of gargling razor blades sound nice?
The grief that sticks to your ribs like black tar
And turns your tongue to acid?
When your own burning eyes try to drown you
Betrayal!
No, no. Thirsty little tissues won’t do
Enter soft sleeves, ancient and worn
Waiting with baited breath
Best if tethered to an old hoodie
Saturated with salt and silt and loamy soil
Strata formed from decades of anguished moments
Fertile ground to hold the weight of you
Pliable enough to wrap you in their tender embrace
Until you learn to breathe again