Tell me it's okay
to turn them off
—the feelings—
to fix heart-piercing sorrow
into a dull fog,
to pinch off my nerves
to save myself
again.

You think I'm strong
but I'm just cold
and I don't know how survive
any other way but stiff and alone.

There are some words you can only write
while you're in the middle of it;
a screaming jumble of letters
—of sounds of tears of quiet—
unbeautified by the passing of days
because the passing of days
heals and the words
—these words—
are meant to stay broken.

Is there some redemption in the pain?
a gilded lining within these words?
a truth hidden, awaiting exposition?
no,
there are only words, these words,
as long as they remain
until they die and fade away.

About This Poem

I've never been good at allowing myself to feel my feelings, but I'm working on it. Several months ago, when my grandma and my dog died within a few days of each other, there were plenty of feelings to go around.

I found myself feeling scattered, inconsistent, uncertain... which was very "not me," and I wanted to push them down. Instead, I wrote them down and refused to cast judgment on any of the things I felt—including the desire to suppress them. This poem is what came out of that expression.