Grief Has Eight Legs - An Original Poem
Grief Has Eight Legs Isabel Mya Grief has been pestering me lately. She crawls around inside me, sharpening her fangs on my bones. She scuttles back and forth and hides in places I’d least expect. Grief has eight legs and each one stomps all over my heart. Yesterday I found her lurking behind the memory of racing back home in the rain, running at full speed, with water sloshing around in my shoes and slithering down the back of my neck. Next thing I knew she’d darted over to a feeling I’d all but forgotten – seeing the world spin around as I (badly) attempted a cartwheel (and barely made it off the grassy ground.) The other day I even found her building a web around the sights and sounds of public transport. Who knew you could feel nostalgia for waiting on a train platform, minding the gap, finding an empty seat with a proper table? I can see the trains going by from my bedroom window. They rush by, with no time to stop and say hello to a sick girl stuck in bed. Why shoul