Do I Know Grief?

I have not known that kind of grief—
not yet.
But I have touched a pain
that lives in silence.

Ten days.
No words, no eyes to meet,
just the breath,
and a body that would not let me flee.

I sat still—
two hours at a time,
from before the sun rose
until the stars returned.
Day after day,
the world fell away,
and only the storm inside remained.

My mind screamed.
My heart pounded so loud
I thought it would break open my chest.
My legs burned as if carved from fire.
My kidneys throbbed with such rage
I feared they’d rip themselves free.

There was no escape.
The more I moved, the deeper it hurt.
So I stayed.
And I surrendered.

To the muscle’s cry,
the aching bones,
the fire in my belly,
and the ghosts of fear dancing in my spine.

In that stillness,
I met sorrow without story.
I met the brokenness
that doesn’t come from losing someone—
but from losing everything
you thought you were.

And maybe,
in that quiet devastation,
I caught a glimpse
of what it means
to grieve.