Grief has kissed me too often
No matter how many times a toothbrush
Collides with my mouth
I still taste him on my lips
He has his name
Tattooed on my skin
And I can no longer hide him
He shows up beside me in every walk
I make through the doors of vulnerability
His scent has become my identity
I have no choice
But to make him my acquaintance
One who feeds off me
in portions just large enough to thrive,
yet small enough
to leave me surviving.
Wanja.