Trigger Warning: This poem discusses grief and suicide.
Humidity Once again, I can't cope and I talk about the weather. It's too raw and it's rainy. You know how I am on cloudy days. I am not happy, I think I am ok. This is no different than anything else I have been through it is just something else to survive. And the humidity is sticking my shirt to my back my face is swollen; though that may be the thought of tears. And I am soaked through too numb - too wet with circumstance. This is one of those days I have nothing to offer except that sense that I need Something. The weatherman says it's supposed to rain all week. And I heard that the month of May has the highest rate of suicide; not for the ones who think about it for the ones who really die, like Lucy. I used to be the one who thought about it now I think about how to keep all of you alive. I swore to keep living at that damn Catholic funereal. And I think there may be a God every time there is a warm hand to hold in the ICU and the tubes come out and we get another chance to pick up the pieces. But there isn't enough glue in the world to put it all back together. And rain will fall lightning will strike and I'll get another one of those phone calls. I remember the sound of death in his voice. I am not happy, I think I am ok.
I know every moment, every thought, every feeling this poem comes from though I am still deciphering all it has to say. It has a lot to say about faith, particularly my atheism. That Catholic funereal was amazing, the priest was more forward thinking than most, though there was this stigma to the whole thing because of how she died.
We love to credit God for all of our second chances, though not question God when those chances are ripped away from us.
This poem touches a bit on survivor’s guilt.
At the heart though, it is about all the reasons to stay alive despite and because of the darkness. It is about survival, all these things can happen and we can be ok.