it’s the end of second semester & it’s been months since i have last seen a full movie. i’ve been busy briefing my therapist-self on how grief comes in halves, how my body welcomes it, part by part. there are different paths grief makes into the body. even in the most fictional way possible. today, i decide to watch a movie, three hours long[ing] to escape grief. what’s comedy if not a delulu to elude grief? it’s there, waiting to increase the volume of silence in the room. in this non-fiction, there are many [f]actors for grief, and i am one of them. you are too. and there are days when i’m not casted on grief-list. during harmattan, my skin is too dry and thick for grief to pierce. in school, my head is too full of cases that it closes out any [tort] thought of grief. even now, my body escapes grief but my hands grieve, betraying me. this poem, a graffiti on a gravestone.











Photo by Peter Herrmann on Unsplash