Author: Estti E.

During rainstorms

Crying in a bed that isn’t yours is like leaving your grief in the arms of a complete stranger. The sheets do not recognize your smell or the tightness of your grip and the pillows mistake your tears for dripping sweat. They have not yet learned the pace of your brokenness or that the conveyor belt of your heart is worn Your sighs sound restful at first Your shakes start out gentle and then grow into something that feels like a volcano at the brink of an eruption. Your sobs are fighting this war pushing back against your will to stay silent, rebelling. You are rubbing your chest in a soft circular motion the same way your mother rubbed your back through every rainstorm when you were young You are running out of air Holding your head like your neck is on its knees Whispering words that sound a lot like begging Like you want to survive this but you aren’t sure Like you might make it through but not for long Like you have given so much, for …