Natasha Trethewey, from Thrall: Poems; "Mythology"
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I kept some of my dad's shirts after he passed. They've been packed up for quite a few years now but I figured I'd start wearing them sometimes rather than let them waste away in a tote 🤷♀️
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The most painful lesson of love is that it is not enough. Finding love and keeping love are two different things. I walked away from the love of my life because of this.
If you have love and/ or are loved, honour and cherish it.
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it’s so weird how someone’s life becomes condensed into their death. like you can know a person for twenty years and in a single moment you don’t anymore. and of course it’s not that that time disappears but suddenly this person is only made up of these memories and there is no forward motion for them or for the you that knew them. idk it’s just so strange and incomprehensible to me that one second just cancels out years of life like how is that possible
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“She let herself feel the pain and the anguish rather than bury them for another day. It was okay to feel sorrow, anger. It was okay for her to weep, in sadness, in relief.”
- Rebecca Ross, from Ruthless Vows
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once again thinking about how grief is a circular staircase. how you can never move on from grief, it makes a home inside of you and you just learn to live with it. you just stop paying attention to it as much as you used to.
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Acceptance. I finally reach it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircase.
I have lost you.
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had a dream/nightmare about my sister and woke up forgetting she was dead. almost 10 yrs gone and it can still happen. grief is a circular staircase
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Actual real footage of me after reading this devastating, heart wrenching, soul crushing, tear bringing, breakdown inducing fanfic about Megatron after Kiloton’s death
https://archiveofourown.org/works/48747187
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Andrew Garfield, in an interview with GQ
It's never-ending. The grief is never-ending. The love is never-ending. Like, Oh. That's the nature of love.
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The night I lost you
someone pointed me towards
the Five Stages of Grief
Go that way, they said,
it’s easy, like learning to climb
stairs after the amputation.
And so I climbed.
Denial was first.
I sat down at breakfast
carefully setting the table
for two. I passed you the toast—
you sat there. I passed
you the paper—you hid
behind it.
Anger seemed more familiar.
I burned the toast, snatched
the paper and read the headlines myself.
But they mentioned your departure,
and so I moved on to
Bargaining. What could I exchange
for you? The silence
after storms? My typing fingers?
Before I could decide, Depression
came puffing up, a poor relation
its suitcase tied together
with string. In the suitcase
were bandages for the eyes
and bottles of sleep. I slid
all the way down the stairs
feeling nothing.
And all the time Hope
flashed on and off
in defective neon.
Hope was a signpost pointing
straight in the air.
Hope was my uncle’s middle name,
he died of it.
After a year I am still climbing, though my feet slip
on your stone face.
The treeline
has long since disappeared;
green is a color
I have forgotten.
But now I see what I am climbing
towards: Acceptance
written in capital letters,
a special headline:
Acceptance
its name is in lights.
I struggle on,
waving and shouting.
Below, my whole life spreads its surf,
all the landscapes I’ve ever known
or dreamed of. Below
a fish jumps: the pulse
in your neck.
Acceptance. I finally
reach it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircase.
I have lost you.
-Linda Pastan, “The Five Stages of Grief” from The Five Stages of Grief: Poems
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In Memory, Katarinahime. Part 2.
I couldn't remember if I had ever spoken with her.
"What's been the most mindwrecking is that I don't know what she felt about me. And I know this isn't about me, but all I know is that she was important to me."
"I get that it's a weird thought to have in the middle of this. The way you wonder about how she felt about you. But hell, grief is freakin' weird. I'm remembering you two had this adorable back and forth that gave me feels. I'm not sure what you have to draw on, I'm not sure if it's not enough or something, but I like to think she knew what she meant to you, and she seemed like she really enjoyed every bit of love on here that she got. I think she recognized you equally, Days."
"I honestly don't remember much of our conversations. But you make it sound like we talked with each other enough for it to be memorable... I wonder why I can't really remember anything. I guess you know what I'll be doing later tonight. Trying to fish out our old convos from way back in the past."
"I could be a liar. I could be remembering / the wrong details." - Hieu Minh Nguyen, from This Way to the Sugar: Poems; “Teacher’s Pet”
I saved them now. Now I can
Read them. Reread them.
Why can't I remember them?
"There is nothing in this story that's not a dagger." - Hieu Minh Nguyen, from This Way to the Sugar: Poems; “Teacher’s Pet”
I say that she knew my love for her, so why don't I know what she felt for me? Why can't I remember anything past what I said to her.
Why can't I remember what she said.
Or did I just not know her.
"Grief is a circular staircase." - Linda Pastan, from The Five Stages of Grief
She was like a sister.
She was like a friend.
She was like a classmate.
I've lost her.
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Whether fondly or bitterly, in the end we realise that grief is probably a bit easier to handle when we have the right people to hold our hands.
No matter how long and how intensely we grieve, in the journey of life, new people keep joining us, and make the old memories a little less painful. They aren't meant to replace the ones we lose, but to assure us that there's more to look forward to. You never really shut the doors on grief, but you realise that when the waves of grief come rushing in, they might hit less hard because you have new pairs of hands holding you up.
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"The Five Stages Of Grief"-
Linda Pastan
The night I lost you
someone pointed me towards
the Five Stages of Grief
Go that way, they said,
it’s easy, like learning to climb
stairs after the amputation.
And so I climbed.
Denial was first.
I sat down at breakfast
carefully setting the table
for two. I passed you the toast—
you sat there. I passed
you the paper—you hid
behind it.
Anger seemed more familiar.
I burned the toast, snatched
the paper and read the headlines myself.
But they mentioned your departure,
and so I moved on to
Bargaining. What could I exchange
for you? The silence
after storms? My typing fingers?
Before I could decide, Depression
came puffing up, a poor relation
its suitcase tied together
with string. In the suitcase
were bandages for the eyes
and bottles of sleep. I slid
all the way down the stairs
feeling nothing.
And all the time Hope
flashed on and off
in defective neon.
Hope was a signpost pointing
straight in the air.
Hope was my uncle’s middle name,
he died of it.
After a year I am still climbing, though my feet slip
on your stone face.
The treeline
has long since disappeared;
green is a color
I have forgotten.
But now I see what I am climbing
towards: Acceptance
written in capital letters,
a special headline:
Acceptance
its name is in lights.
I struggle on,
waving and shouting.
Below, my whole life spreads its surf,
all the landscapes I’ve ever known
or dreamed of. Below
a fish jumps: the pulse
in your neck.
Acceptance. I finally
reach it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircase.
I have lost you.
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i keep thinking this is a nightmare. why am i not waking up?
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