midnight isn’t a cure for devastation

Everything that didn’t kill me doesn’t make me stronger. 
Or more brave. 
Hell, Ms. Morrison says that sometimes you don’t survive whole.

Everything didn’t happen for a reason. 
Sometimes you don’t survive at all. 

I have a graveyard I visit when I’m alone with myself. 
All the headstones say my name
and I cry over each one. 

Some years take more than they give. 
Other years give generously but you only know because you’re still breathing. 

Grief is a god who knows my name intimately.

As much as I want to believe it is, midnight isn’t a cure for devastation.
The new year is just another tomorrow to cross over into
and I spend my mornings mourning the me’s who didn’t make it to sunrise. 

Who are we in the spaces language doesn’t reach? 
Is it language that can’t stretch or me who won’t do the stretching? 

I’m not sure what’s next when the unfathomable happens. 
What is a new year when the old one drags you backwards? 
What is a tomorrow when yesterday creaks and groans for attention? 

Everything. 
Beloved, everything.