Grief

by Chloe Roxburgh

Image credit: Hossein Nasr on Unsplash

Every few hours my body is transformed by grief.

My insides liquify and disappear completely, replaced by aching sobs. 

I wretch. 

My face is disfigured.

 It’s angry, red, swollen, wet, almost unrecognisable in its

anguish. My eyes meet those in the mirror and I dissolve all over

again. 

I cannot face her.

My grief feels wrong. 

Stolen and shameful - to be displayed only in private. 

My loss is not a loss, it is a choice. 

But a choice doesn’t feel like one when all the choices are wrong. 

The decision is made, was made, there are no options. 

Pick your biggest regret.

I am angry with my grief. 

I loathe her, I resent her, I bury her deep. 

I cannot keep her contained. 

She is wild and violent and angry too, I don’t blame her. 

I want to hold her gently, nourish her, give her space to breathe. 

I cannot.

My fate was sealed with a simple line as the ink stuck desperately chasing the control. 

I am in shock.

 My body has failed me yet there is a beauty in the magic it has

created. A heartbeat. 

I will fill my veins with poison.

There is too much and it is all too much and it spills over uncontrollably when I am not

looking. 

I am mother, I breathe life, death and consciousness. 

I place no blame or guilt, but I am angry. 

My womb soon to be bleeding alongside my heart. 

I am sick. 

I am exhausted. 

I do not want this. 

Yet, when it is over, will I yearn for it back? 

My loss feels no less because it is a choice, but it does feel lonelier.

I will bleed, I will hurt, I will cry. 

My grief, she dances within me.

***

Chloe Roxburgh

Chloe is a contemporary, conceptual fine artist and writer based in North West Wales. Her practice centres on emotional and deeply personal territory, exploring feminism, parenting, chronic illness, disability, neurodivergence, sexuality, and queerness.