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I have nothing of my own now, not even secrets.
Grief seized me so suddenly I thought I might black out.
For someone who loved words as much as I did, it was amazing how often they failed me
But maybe every day we let grief in, we'll also let a little bit of it out, and eventually we'll be able to breathe again.
So what do you do? Ignore your grief, or indulge it?
I seemed doomed to always play supporting roles in someone else's story.
My heart feels heavy in my chest. Secrets carry weight, like lead.
We were always surrounded by books and words and poetry, all the fierce passions of the world, bound in leather