Describing a description of my entrails on that night was like an encrypted conversation between me and myself that I’d once had before. It weighed upon me until spoken, spoken out loud to all. Although all was just me and just me was all I had. That had to be enough, it had to make due. Otherwise what was the point of being, if being meant less than me. I tried finding the distance between my mind and the truth. Although the graves paved no path and my feet left no trace. Somehow I managed to muster up an escape from my thoughts to an attempt at shying away from my own tireless breathing.

“I’m trying” is what I spoke. As nothing spoke back to me. “I’m hurting” is what I felt. As nothing felt back for me. It was in that moment I realized what growth truly meant. It meant that even if your silently gasping for words at the edge of your own plot, at the edge of another’s grave. The mere reflection awaiting me on the other side of cold and awkward, would be enough to look back on someday. A day lived to remember I suppose. Gratitude bread’s gratefulness.