turn the page

i’ve struggled with this month. september. this weather, turning colder.

this heavy dread is thick around me, coating all of my movements in the last several weeks. we worked so hard to get you through the cold this year, patiently biding our time for the warmth to allow you more freedom outside the confined spaces in our home. we were so close. you died on the last day of winter, the world erupting in green less than a week after you came home in ashes.

september brings a chill that i’ve cursed for months, as its dry air and shiver prevented you from FULLY LIVING YOUR LIFE at the end of your life. and i am still so angry.

september also brings your favorite number. the one you’d text me screenshots of when the clock rolled over. “the best time of my day,” you’d say. “the best day of my life.”

my birthday.

the first i’ll celebrate without you calling me bright and early, singing my song with a drawn out, “and many moooooore,” your voice wavering at the end.

and it, too, makes me so angry that i bought a punching bag and boxing gloves and keep them in the garage for times when i feel so overloaded with rage at how things went for you that i am physically full of pain and ire and understand that if i don’t hit something repeatedly or break into pieces another object mirroring my own broken heart that i will explode.

i don’t know when this anger goes away. but i am scared of its depth sometimes. i want to scream at everyone i see on the street with a cigarette in their hand DO YOU FUCKING KNOW THE DEPTH OF PAIN YOU WILL CAUSE THEM? do you have any idea of the slow burn of death you’re dealing with each inhale, exhale, repeat?

i do. you did. they will.

fuck this cold. fuck turning an age you’ll never see, and opening chapters of my life you’ll never read, and the inability to share with you all the joys and pain that is to come.

if i yelled loudly enough, could you hear me?

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