If sorrow is a suit, its weight is incalculable. One day he’s gone and it sews itself inside you. Mourning drapes your skin in its invisible fabric. Every memory furs atop a price memory. Your limbs, your teatures, your senses extend themselves to accommodate the sadness. One morning you wake and try to wear this new suit in the bathroom or the bedroom, in the shower or at the front door, down the stairs of the stoop to the walkway hovering before you, and you finally realize you are carrying another body, his body, your former body, your bodies together, in and on you, and this slows you, and stills you, weighs more than two bodies or many bodies inside your body, it's like the bodies are breeding bodies, metastasizing bodies, so much bone and vein and hair, and you touch the force, the heat of the seething arteries, feel the sheer new tonnage moving and pressing in on you, grief's scent like the first breath in a foreign country, and you fear your entry but you're already in. You think of flight but woe offers no exit. You sing, you weep, you dance but there's no way out. Except one. Through your own skin. This one, heavy with sweat, matted, half-shed and broken by a delta of scars, smelling of something familiar, indiscernible and animal, slick and smoldering like volcanic rock, as white as ash, and death itself: take it. You take it. You take it off.
theartofmadeline
discoholicmusic
titsay
areudirty
