WIDOW. The word consumes itself, said Sylvia Plath, who consumed herself.

She'd survived on wine and sugar for months because, fuck it, she never really got a childhood, and what was grief but an extended tantrum to be salved by sex and candy?

[Grief is for the strong, who use it as fuel for burning.]

[Grief is pain internalized, abscess of the soul. Anger is pain as energy, sudden explosion.]

Grief as a low-grade fever. His sadness is a hive at the back of his head: he moves slowly to keep from being stung. Things bunch together, smooth endlessly out.