I'm guilty
I should be charged with treason
I'm guilty
I should be cuffed with shackles of pain
I'm guilty
I should be drowning in grief
I should
I should
I should
but I'm not
grief was shoved out
locked behind a door
and so I'm guilty
for laughing and smiling
when I'll never see them laugh, smile, again

I draw line after line of red ink on my arms, my thighs, trying to feel the pain of loss, trying to pry, rip, cut open that door to my grief, but I don't feel a thing except guilt