soliloquy of solitude

The thing about grief: it doesn't end with its five phases or whatever.  It stays.  It eats you every day.  You feel it in your chest.  Your arms tremble.  Yet, you can't cry.  You are never allowed to cry.  Not anymore.  Not after an evil, ungrateful man saw your tears and exploited them. A thought in the late night or the very early morning.  You feel the pain is fresh.  You wonder why you were stabbed and left to die alone.  Your hands seek a grasp.  Nobody is around. We are always alone.  And it's fine.  We are always better off alone. Forgive yourself.  Forgive me.