this isnt really grieving our deaths these arent tears theyre only pretend but im ready to leave my body behind me im ready to let go of all that defines me but St. Peter doesn't recognize me i told him "I have to apologize please understand, it was not you I just could not bear to go through the daily pleasantries of 'how are you'" this isn't bleeding its just assembling words and this isn't dreaming because you pinch and it hurts but the gas all seems to have dissipated they keep sending me bills i keep forgetting to pay them and I never answered the phone even though i was really at home and so St Peter must be holding a grudge I never answered the door even though I was really at home and so St Peter says the gates are closed "Im sorry sir, you'll have to go" so this isnt acting Ive realized we breathe and im clutching my stomach in the depths of my grief so Im opening windows to let in the breeze in hopes that passersby will help me find peace because words just aren't bringing relief and words just aren't bringing release