When I was Seventeen

When I was 17 I believed grief wore the face of death. I thought it would come with wailing, With wet cheeks and broken things. But when it came, It made no sound. No storm, No crash, No fire. It came like dust, Settling in my chest, In the hollow between my breaths, In the quiet ache beneath my skin. It took me to the floor, And the floor didn’t mind. It held me like it knew What it meant to be quiet, Still, And tired Of carrying things with no name, No one to hold onto, No one to blame. There, in the hush, I learned what silence knew How something light as air Can still Crush you through and through. They called it growing up But I have my doubts. It felt like learning to live With things you can’t shout. No bruises, no blame, Just silence stretched out.