stages of grief // poetry

acceptance

Let it hurt.

Let it tear apart your insides, rip your stomach to shreds and stab one thousand little holes through your heart and back again ten or twenty or thirty times over.

Don't intervene as each one of your bones ache with the darkness that has been laid upon them.

Let it bring you first to a halt, then to your knees, until the weight finally sends you collapsing onto the ground in a pool of black ink mixed with salty tears you can't shed enough of and the wine red blood your demons get drunk off when it's late and you can't sleep.

Let it hurt until it can't hurt anymore.

Let it hurt until you have no more blood to bleed and no more tears to shed.

Empty yourself of your pain, so that maybe - just maybe - those dark crevices inside of you can be filled up with goodness instead.

After all, sometimes we must burn before we rise.