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Weekly Contest #369
The Shape My Grief TakesThey say grief comes slowly, the way frost climbs a window without anyone watching it start. They say it begins as a weight behind the sternum, something with no shape yet, no name, only pressure, only the sense that a door has opened somewhere inside the chest and will not close ever again. They say it takes on texture, grey at first, like an ash before it remembers it was once wood, once something that could burn and give warmth. It gathers in the throat, thick as an unspoken things always are, and settles there, re...
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