Stand at My Grave and Scream

Stand at My Grave and Scream —

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 never to be woken from, my calm sealed.

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.

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, 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. I died fully. There is no metaphor, no continuation, no transformation. It was my time — ready or not. Be angry and let go; I will not tell you no.

Death is final. Death is hard. I will not silence your grief — let it go. Let death be the thief.

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.

Comments

Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter.

Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter. So if I got paid for every time someone told me my daughter looks fabulous, I’d be a millionaire. A millionaire for every doctor who ignored you, for every professional who let you slip through the cracks, for every moment when the full information, the full picture, the full respect wasn’t given. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Today is for you, Molly. And for the future generations of our family — because this is genetic, because this is inherited, because someone needs to notice and someone needs to ask the right questions. I have become, by necessity, a hormonal expert. A mother who had to learn what the system refused to teach. And through it all, your husband — your rock — has moved mountains beside you, carrying what others refused to see, loving you through every unseen storm. I wish PMDD looked like your arm falling off. Because if people could see it, they’d care. Docto...

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way A menopausal purchase is planetary. The sun must shine. The temperature must be just right. You must be neither dipping nor surging — just perfectly balanced in the hormonal moment. Because unless you buy exactly when the stars align, it will get returned. You’ll love it on the day. But if the scales tip even slightly — by the next morning, it’s on the fence. If you’re lucky, you’ll return it. If not, it’ll sit in your wardrobe for 28 days until the return window closes. Then it’s either sold on Vinted for a quarter of the price or left to haunt you. There’s a lot resting on a menopausal buy. It’s not just a purchase — it’s a mood, a moment, a miracle. I never realised this until I saw how small my wardrobe was. Not because the shops weren’t there — but because I wasn’t there when I got there. You leave the house feeling great. You arrive at the shops and suddenly… not so great. So the purchase is less than mediocre. ...

The Baby Whale and the Circle of Sharks

🌊 The Baby Whale and the Circle of Sharks A children’s story inspired by Maverick George’s real beginning Intro for Molly and Ryan When Baby Whale was born, the ocean shook. The Sea Health Service — the SHS — whispered to his parents that he had the rarest lung trouble they had seen in sixty tides . His mum, the gentle whale Molly, had just brought him into the world. His dad, the brave whale Ryan, stayed outside the coral surgery cave for hours, swimming back and forth, bringing news, bringing hope, bringing love. Baby Whale needed help right away. Not because he was weak — but because he was special , and his tiny blowhole needed extra care to learn how to breathe. That was only the beginning. 🌊 Chapter One: The Circle of Sharks From the moment Baby Whale opened his eyes, the sharks were already circling. Not the big, fierce sharks — not the ones who bite in one terrible snap. These were the small‑bite sharks . The ones who take tiny nibbles, again and again, never enough to ...

Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

Search This Blog