snot is the bedroom of grief

tears don’t run down my face.
i mean they do,
but it’s the snot that’s the real stuff of grief.

the goopy lines of slime
that cascade out of some deep cave in my nose
that end up in my mouth
and down my neck
and in the cracks of my elbows —
that’s my picture of pain.

tears are too pretty, too gentle, too conformist.

snot is the bedroom of grief —
private, unpredictable, messy

and waiting patiently for me
each night.