Quiet Grief

My grief is quiet.

For how can my grief stand up to those around me

when the grief of others is surely greater than my own?

I don't have the right to cry.

So I keep my tears in check.

When those around me have cried and found peace,

then will I shed tears of my own where I cannot disturb their healing.

I keep my grief quiet.

I stiffen my jaw,

I glaze my gaze,

I keep my voice-level,

I stay calm,

I keep everything inside.

I have to be strong so others around me can feel their sadness.

I can't cry

when those around me deserve it so much more.

It's only human to break,

but if we all break who will pick up the pieces?

So I keep everything together to collect the shards of vulnerability around me and piece them back together.

And I am called strong.

And I am called callous.

And I am called cold.

And I am called emotionless.

But I feel grief like everyone.

I just keep my grief quiet so it doesn't bother those around me who deserve to grieve more.

So I grieve when it's quiet.

When everyone else has had their chance.

When I can allow my pieces to fall and pick them up so no one cuts their fingers on my emotions.

My grief is quiet.

Because it's quiet it lingers longer.

It isn't allowed to be heard.

It isn't allowed to shout.

It must pace the hallways in silence until it's worn enough that it rests.

Because my grief is quiet is hides in corners and crevasses.

Behind the gritted jaw,

blank gaze,

calm words,

passive expression.

I keep my grief quiet,

because who am I to grieve when others deserve to grieve so much more?

So I keep my grief quiet.

I keep my jaw gritted.

I swallow my tears.

And keep my grief quiet.