Might as well go for broke

Although two grief poems in one night seems somewhat excessive, I wanted to start letting go of this one as soon as possible. Sometimes it really is better to share.

Phases of Grief: A Misnomer

It seems like it's been such a long time since we said a casual hello,
And I miss the sound of your voice.
With each passing day it gets harder to go back to where we were,
Each day takes me farther from where we were.
Without even realizing it, I have boxed you up in my head - or, rather, preserved you perfectly in a glass case I can visit when I get lonely.

Only it's not so perfect, because I keep forgetting the important things.
In all this time we have stagnated and I've been forced to recognize the nature of death is the absence of growth.

Every now and again I think of you and I am filled with white hot rage that threatens to burn me forever.
I want to know why no one told me that death could be so ugly. I had such unrealistic expectations of peaceful goodbyes and dinner plate sized sunglasses hiding all those tears that wouldn't fall.
Nothing prepared me or anyone else to watch you starve to death no matter how many blueberry sno-cones we brought you.
Some things I had right in my head: at some point the news does make your knees buckle,
At some point you're convinced everyone else is wrong and you just have to believe,
At some point you dream of dieing just to escape the pain.

When I am sleeping and the phone rings, my heart races before my brain even wakes up.
My soul remembers what is was like when they called to tell me you were going to die, and then called to tell that you did.
Sometimes I have the intense desire to throw the phone across the room just to watch it break.

I had this weird thought train that led me to your body, confined in a box, a concrete vault, hidden underground, fighting the natural processes with preservatives and progress.
It's too much like the box you live in in my head, and I want to dig you up and set you free.
But I'm too afraid to be left alone with my rage

No one deserves any of this, but it comes anyway - too often without obvious cause or responsibility.
I can live with your death because I have to, but no one told that I would always sometimes get angry.