Pathetic Or the Bright Side
The line went flat
as I heard the final beep,
my body tried to combat
the swirl of limbs into a heap.
His warm body on the bed,
a fate I refuse to speak,
still processing he's dead
and a future now turned bleak.
My mother tries to tell me,
"Honey, these wounds will heal,
someday you'll agree
there's a purpose for life's faulty deal."
Now, I try to take her words to heart
and tolerate her potent positivity,
but for that I am too "smart"
blinded by my natural negativity.
My mother calls it the bright side,
but I honestly call it pathetic,
because a fake smile doesn't mask dad died
or make my lonely walk down the aisle poetic.
By: Chelsea P. Stone
Note: On my story of grief and loss.
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