Writing for Grief

My grief is a real b.

My grief is a mean girl. She was born out of hurt, anger, and sadness and brings toxicity to everyday activities.

She comes out with a misconstrued comment when you think that you’re doing ok. She cuts you with her double meanings and reminders that you won’t be able to sit at the cool kids’ table, hell the normal kids’ table anymore. She makes sure you know that even if you are there and included, you don’t truly don’t fit in anymore.

On Wednesdays we wear pink. I wear the outfits and demeanor of past Steph, so grief doesn’t call me out, but she notices and marks me different.

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