Grief is not depression
Grief is not depression.
Grief
still mostly brushes its teeth
still showers
but lets its tears run
with the water.
Grief
still sees beauty in the sun,
more than that,
finds comfort
lets the warmth hold it like a small child
fragile and tender
as fuck.
Grief is not depression.
It knows joy
sometimes,
finds itself laughing
in the way a baby laughs:
delighted and surprised at its own being
and for a moment
Grief
forgets itself
and is only living.
Grief is not depression.
It’s a dance
between the ripped-off-plaster present
and memories of something that was once
real and is now not here.
Grief is friends with anxiety
it knows with a jolt
that something is just not how
it used to be
and won’t be again.
Grief is not depression.
It sometimes seeks connection
with others
looking for protection
in the shared knowing
of what it means
to lose.
But sometimes
it needs to be alone -
Grief sometimes gets confused
about when to go out
and when to stay at home.
Grief is not depression.
Grief
can still remember to wash its face
though it is hard.
There is a shell-less quality
to heartbreak:
a feeling like a small piece
of grit stuck to the skin
could be the thing
that kills it.
Grief is not depression.
It knows there is a point to keeping going
though it sometimes
seems vague,
a phantom in the mist,
and it seems to know
that all the untethered love
will surely transform
into something good
if given the space
maybe Humility,
maybe Grace
​
so, get up Grief and wash your face
and remember
you are not depression.