The dagger of grief
The Dagger of Grief.......
Somewhere beneath my heart,
a dagger of grief sleeps—
buried so deep within me
that even its blade
has become invisible to me.
It has clung to me for so long
that it has turned to flesh,
threaded beneath my skin,
woven into the very fabric of my being,
until I can no longer tell
where it ends
and where I begin.
Perhaps it has always been there—
from the very beginning,
from before I knew
the language of sorrow.
And that is the real tragedy—
I cannot remember
when it found me,
or why.
All I could know is—
it feels like mine.
This sorrow—
this ache that has no wound,
this strange, ineffable loneliness
that bears no name,
yet knows me intimately.
It is woven into my shadow,
stitched to the darkness
that follows my every step.
Sometimes,
when joy spills its light upon me,
it retreats into the shadows,
quiet enough to make me believe
it has finally disappeared.
But little did I know
I had never left it behind.
I had been carrying it
all along.
It walks beside me,
step for step,
silent as a second shadow,
whispering—
What are you?
What defines you?
Why do you exist?
Is living truly necessary?
Why are we given this life by God?
Why are we given dreams
that we gaze upon
with our eyes wide open?
But are these dreams truly the purpose of living?
Is a dream something we must fulfill
in order to call it a life?
Or are they merely illusions
placed before our eyes,
giving us something to chase,
so we keep moving
without ever asking
why we exist?
Everyone seems to know
where their heart is trying to go.
Everyone seems to know
what they are reaching for.
And I—
I do not know what I want to become,
nor is there anything
my heart burns to pursue.
What am I supposed to long for?
God,
am I not worthy of one true, passionate dream—
one I can pursue
and call it the purpose
for which I was born?
Or am I merely paying
for sins I do not remember—
some forgotten debt
from a life I cannot recall?
It feels as though I am only surviving,
not living,
not truly alive.
I feel like nothing more than a stone—
no motive to achieve,
no urge to hold,
no goal to cling on to,
no dream to call my own.
And still, I find myself asking—
What am I?
What was I made for?
And perhaps that is my tragedy—
to have carried this dagger so long
that if it were ever gone,
I would not know
what remained of me.
Copyright © April Smith | Year Posted 2026
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