The Physical Side of Grief

My body feels crumpled, clinched. The weight of my pain is hard and heavy. Suppressive. It sits on my neck, shoulders and back. It wraps around me and keeps me from breathing. Consuming. My chest is tight. Tight is an understatement. Locked. My heart pounds through my chest as if trying to escape. Pounds, skips, stops, pounds. I feel the adrenaline course through my body. My anger, my rage, my sadness, my confusion, my constant questioning. I taste metal. Pound, skip, stop, pound. My blood runs cold. My fingers are blue. My hands shake, my legs tremble beneath me. My skin cracks and peels. My stomach is in knots, I have no appetite. I eat anyway and food sits like a rock.