It weighs the heart like wet wool— this ache that won’t be wrung out. We try to outpace death, but what a useless art— to dodge the final breath, to forget the final prayer, to sleep through the silence draped in disguise.

When your parent dies, something in you unravels. A thread pulled loose from the tapestry of self. It’s as if someone spit into the soul’s well— and the echo never stops falling.

A part of you locks away in the hush of unspoken lies. And dragging through the days feels like pulling your own shadow through molasses.

When your parent dies, the world doesn’t end— but it forgets how to begin.