It's been over a year, and I still think about him everyday. Death is so strange.
I'm not sure if this is normal. What is normal anyway? I don't think I've ever been aquainted with it.
Why does growing up have to require so much baggage? As each hurtful event happens year after year, we take it in, breathe it in. It becomes part of us, and we carry it around. A little stone - or a huge rock - in our pockets. Yes, it forms who we are, what we can handle, what we can't. But it painful.
Tell me what else I can do other than push it away, push it deep down? I don't see another option.

When I'm laying on my back I feel anger sitting on my chest, pushing on my throat. It's so heavy and when I'm half asleep I wonder if it's my cat or
maybe you.
Stealing my air.
I feel my heart pound like you pound and it's so fast I know I must be delusional or hopeful or lost. When I dream, it's all gray and black, no white no light, and I feel like I'm attending a funeral where no one died, but we're all waiting.
It smells sour in here, like a man sweating garlic cloves, his only breath mint a menthol cigarette. It smells old and voided out.
There has to be an answer.