It’s so much more difficult to grieve when you’re an adult. When you’re young everything is so dramatic; your first love is your only love, your first loss the end of the very world itself. Kids are hormonal maelstroms so it’s okay if you scream and sob, beat the walls until your fists are bloody, stick your flesh full of metal and write the absolutely worst poetry possible. That’s normal. That’s youth in all its confusion and heartache and unjustified expectation crushed by reality. When you’re an adult, though, you can’t succumb to the grief spiral. You’re expected to get up the next day and be back at work, smiling around the howl that threatens to rip out your mouth. You don’t get to shut out the world. You don’t get to slit your wrists. You don’t get to give up and let someone else run things because there is no one else. You’re it. You pay the bills, you answer the phone, you water the fucking plants because God forbid they die on you too and there’s no one else to do it for you now. So you force yourself out of bed in the morning when all you want to do is drink yourself to a black stupor, shower in water that’s never hot enough, eat a breakfast that has no taste, and go out to face the mass of humanity that has no clue how wounded you are and wouldn’t care even if it did. And the next day, lucky you, you get to do it all again. Go to sleep alone; wake up alone; repeat.