❝ i think if stars were edible
they’d taste like grief
but not the kind of grief you hold in
not the kind that suffocates you
turns you rotten and rotting.
i think if stars were edible
they’d taste like the kind of grief that washes you out
the kind of grief that’s a good long cry
and every day it’s like an ocean in your chest
and the tides roll down your face
and the roar of waves come crashing out your mouth
and you fall asleep, spent and clean and still tear-streaked
but every day that grief stills a little more
quiets a little more
rippling every now and again
smooth as glass
which is, after all, only sand enflamed ❞
—it's clean, this grief, and it sings softly for a long, long time
sumayyah writes poetry...
...because sometimes she Feels Things™ and then has to scribble those Feelings down so she can get them out of her head and move on with her day.