Kin

Dominique Simpson
4 min readAug 25, 2021
Photo by Marianna Smiley on Unsplash

It is piercing, Unforgettable, in the worst way imaginable. A silent thunderous wail of despair is purged from the crevices of my soul. It is stunningly intimate to be capable of such overwhelming pain. I’m uncertain of what to feel first while feeling it all once. The weight of it is heavily fragile and laborious. Exhausting and tiresome, depleting me of every fiber that completes me. Wholeness is no longer just like you. She made her departure with the vanishing of your existence. The easiest thing to accept is that I forfeited any say I may have in the matter — how selfish of you. The perishing of creation can be the ugliest example of humanity. The finality of your permanent absence is not at all kind or fair about its abruptness. I am profoundly ignorant as to how I am supposed to continue. Unintentionally, I take suggestions from the plethora of emotions lingering in the void, waiting to be acknowledged that though they are here I lack control over when I will feel what and how it will be expressed. My thoughts and emotions scatter and frolic in confusion and misery. The intangibleness of your being is excruciating, the most aggressive pain mankind knows. Oh, how I wish I were unfamiliar.

Escaping the swallows of death felt impossible. I became consumed with waves of grief forgetting that I am no swimmer, then remembering to drown. As I was quickly sinking denial avoidance and addiction anchored me. Your death invited me to die along with you. I relinquished my will to live, the easiest decision I made since your soul no longer inhabited the Earth. The unrelenting presence of loneliness is seldom mentioned though we gather to corporately mourn. I am unaccompanied in the lowest and deepest valley. The reality of the world crushed me. I am suffocated by thoughts of what was and what will no longer be. I laid down in the pit of sadness and sorrow. This is hell. She is deceased.

Hell gave me the understanding that I am fragmented. An array of pieces of her surrounded me like shards of glass. I carefully picked up a small piece. I stared at it, intently. She peered back at me. We fixed our gaze on one another. Remembering that I was besieged by the chaos of hell, looking at her, though she was me, if not now at some point, her setting was different. I couldn’t place where she was but something about it was vaguely familiar. I picked up another piece to try and figure out where she was. I…

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Dominique Simpson

The hermit scribe, a witty womanist. Essayist, poet, and black literature enthusiast. Unequivocally and unapologetically black.