“Flowers” by Anonymous

Grief. 4 years. 4 years is a long time to hold on to something that hurts so badly. 4 years is a long time to never let go. I see you in the shadows of the alleys when I walk home from work alone. I feel you in the hands that brush my skin without asking if they ever could. I hear you in the laughs of those who don’t know. A pounding in my heart—a void—black—dark—gone. Loneliness. 4 years. 4 years of suffering in silence. Help is a winding road few have the ability to travel. But it’s fine—I’m fine. And then I’m not. The moon and I are staring at each other finding a friend. Finding a light—even just a shimmer on some nights—brave enough to face the inevitable darkness that creeps. The stars are there too— so you’re never really alone. But you shine a little brighter, fall a little harder; feel a little deeper than the rest. And that is what makes you alone, my moon.

The walls. 4 years of my walls. They are strong. They haven’t let me get hurt since. I reject, I cancel, I lead on, and I turn down — for me. Because my walls don’t let me do otherwise. My walls do their job. No intruders. No chances taken. I am safe behind them. Nobody can touch me. Nobody will touch me. I am light on my ground. I hover a few feet above the rest. I am safe here. Safe. I am safe.

Vigilance. 4 years of scanning every room I’m in, every time I go out to eat, go to a party, a bar, a class I’m in, a group hangout, a Facebook invite event, I look for you and your name. My dog has the same name as you, did you know that? But he fills me up with so much love, pours his heart and his little soul into me. He fills me with so much love I can’t breathe. He loves me until I hurt. It hurts to love. It does. But I have come to learn that a name is only that. You are a person and he is a dog. A name is the only thing you share. Maybe your name isn’t ruined for me. How can I let something that brings me so much joy share the same fate as you? I won’t. I don’t. I can’t. Your name is not ruined. Yours belongs to you and his belongs to him. Not all things that go by your name are sour.

Mirrors. 4 years of staring back at a different person. She is strong and she is soft and she is so beautiful, yet she is wounded. But she is being stitched up. Flowers—my kind lovers—are growing over the broken dirt that is that night back in August. Back in 2018. Back to a time I can hardly remember anymore. The broken dirt is healing; it is being watered, nurtured, cared for—loved.

-Anonymous