Sitting before the Seagram Murals

grief gently sobbed from me
while I clambered through
a deep red abyss.

I asked the murals to keep my pain
but they refused

(you cannot give us what was never yours

take it back)
they said

Drowning in bruised colour, I stood


but grief held my hand as we left,
staring back into the sea,
wondering why it could not leave me.

Stay, 
I said-
You are all I have left
of what was never mine

How can I give you up?

Fragile

At this moment in time I feel like a cardboard box which has 'fragile' emblazoned on it and thick tape wrapped around it screaming the same distress call. Except-

I am not a cardboard box.

I am a human contained in something fleeting and although I would like to be carried gently though the world like my metaphorical box, I am instead hurtling through the abyss too fast to be able to slow it down and oh, if only I could just slow this all down.

Outside of the metaphorical box I am still fragile. I just don't have any protection. And I am too well versed in hiding.

The air and the balance in the world feels off to me. At the slightest change of anything in this fickle universe, my eyes are ready to bawl and the only stopper to this outpouring of grief is the inevitable grief of being 'found out'.

I don't know why this is happening. I don't understand it. But it sucks. And it hurts. And I feel brittle and fragile and I am scared.

Of too many things and everything.