This grief is not a gentle thing. This isn’t a beautiful corpse holding a sprig of flowers in hands crossed lovingly over a chest. This isn’t grief like eyes closed in sleep.
If this grief comes in waves, they aren’t the gentle waves of the tide coming in. These are the tsunami waves after an earthquake. It is waves that suck the coastline dry and leave every living thing gasping for air, then come slamming back with so much force they break concrete and uproot trees. These waves crack buildings and overturn cars.
These tears aren’t a gentle spring rain that feels like a blessing on your face. These are the raindrops of a cyclone. These tears shred the leaves on trees and leave a wreckage of rotting greenery behind. These tears sting where they touch you and leave welts on your skin.
This isn’t a grief that can cry quietly. This grief wants to wreck violence, wants to tear and rend and rip and shatter. This grief wants to scream throats bloody.
This is grief full of shattering glass and twisting metal. This is grief full of broken sinews and splintered bones.
There is nothing gentle about this grief.