Stand at My Grave and Scream

(Your inversion — tightened, structured, still yours)

Stand at my grave and scream. Stand there. Cry. Feel every inch of the loss. Embrace it, and let it go.

I am gone. I am nowhere you can reach. I am not resting; I am finished — a deep sleep that will not break, a calm that will not return to you.

I am not in the air. I am not around you. You will not feel me. Your brain may trick you for a while, but trust this: I am gone.

There is no sparkle, no sign, no beauty left of me. Only you remain.

I am not in the warmth. I am not in anything that grows. Ashes and dust — that is all.

I am not soft. I am pain. I am not returning. I am not touching you or your world again.

When you wake, I am absent. The quiet is just quiet — silenced and gone.

There is no uplifting. No rush. No presence. Just birds in the sky, flying without me at your side.

The night is empty. The stars shine for themselves — not as a message, but as a glint of another world.

Cry if you need to. The grave is the only place I still exist.

I am gone.

Footnote

These pieces are me practising opposites — taking the soft clichés around death and turning them inside out. It’s word‑play, fairy‑tale endings dismantled, grief without the sugar. None of it is true; it’s imagination, a writer learning her own edge. I’m teaching myself how to hold darkness and self‑love in one place, how to make fiction feel honest.

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