Sorrow is such a lovely word, like sparrow or fragile. It invokes something delicate, vulnerable, and utterly tangible.

My sorrow is shallow and silly, like the sorrow of a schoolgirl. Any yet there is something tragic about a grown woman having a secret sorrow. But don’t we all have some regret that silently gnaws at our heart, cramps our stomach, and keeps us awake.

And here’s a wee poem…

How many times can one
person come undone?
my hair is up now and
my thread has unraveled.
My fingers are ice picks
scratching at my thighs.
I’ve watched you marvel
at the second story window.
Your hands raised, waving at the sky.
And I knew your sadness,
and I knew your fears.
I threw them back with the
shot that pierced your spine.