I don’t dream of the louvre though

I dream of yellow lighting, music playing, smells of dinner and hearts around the table

I don’t remember much from my childhood in that cold land

Other than the fact I never actually felt cold

There was always warmth in our home

Until there wasn’t

Ironic moving somewhere warmer but then we couldn’t handle the heat

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The shadow lifted.

In giving into grief,

for it to only move past you.

7 months of mourning a life left behind for something you thought would be better.

You hold your tongue, only to be asked what’s on your mind.

Find a purpose for the suffering.

The venom in speaking feels so uncontrollable.

Swallow it or spit it out, anything but letting it

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