The Shape

I keep it in a box

small enough to hide,

heavy enough to tilt the shelf.

It’s the sort of thing

I promise myself

I won’t open before breakfast,

but somehow,

it breathes through the seams.

I’ve tried wrapping it

in jokes,

in errands,

in the hum of small talk,

but grief is stubborn

it stains coffee cups,

clings to the skin of my hands,

turns the corners of rooms

into small, aching altars.

I thought I could outrun it

by making days louder

filling the air with plans

that left no room to think.

But still,

there it was,

curling at the edges of my voice.

Here’s where the shift comes:

I stopped building walls.

I started watching it,

like a shadow

that only means

the sun is near.

Now, when it leaks,

I let it

sometimes into the soil,

sometimes into the cracks

I used to call weakness.

It grows strange things there:

a patience I didn’t ask for,

a tenderness I didn’t expect.

The box is still full.

Maybe it always will be.

But I am learning

how to carry it

without losing my hands

to the weight.