There came a point in her dying when you
couldn't watch anymore. Outside, too cold
for any reasonable November, you cried
and didn't care who saw, let a stranger
wrap an arm around your shoulders and
lead you out the other side of your grief.
Caught, when everything felt like falling.

Now you're the one people cry about. You
aren't dying, in fact you don't even look
unwell, but every gesture turned your way
makes you feel as though you are.
Every care package seems freighted
with forboding, and no one talks to you
without your sickness surfacing like a buoy.

Today, even the kindest motions are barbed.
You cry now when careless courtesy is
turned your way, because you know what it
doesn't. Someday even strangers will see
the truth. Even strangers will lose their grip
and let you drop.