By: Debbie Tunstall

Griefs algorithm

It goes like this:

punching walls to the sound of
the snapping of the bottle,

followed by silence.

The upward trek on hind legs,
the ground sliding beneath them.

Trek quietly, lightly, efficiently
with smiles stuffed into my backpack.

Upwards, onwards, I go.

I fall, you fall. We fall.

Onwards and upwards we go.

How to put pain into poetry

First, you must dissect it.
Slice it open, ( the pain of course )
until you see it for what it is-
RAW.

You must allow it to sit,
fleshy and disturbed.

Next, carefully and meticulously
place everything back in:

Heart, lungs, skin-
sew and stitch
sewn and stitched.

Only then can you begin.

Death rests next to my pillow

It hides beneath the blankets and me,
we comfort each other against the thickness of cotton, and minds.
It doesn’t mind that I am bare, boneless.
It wears my skin as a shield whenever I try to wrestle it.
It’s 10.p.m, tiredness tears the tops of tears left somewhere under our pillow.
They flow, fluently like words, with the glow of the t.v highlighting their bridges.
What next? Mind numbing distraction?
Death has better ideas. It always does.
A Quick Google search to sort the restlessness. Breathe in, in
HOLD-
pointless. Even death dares me not to.
Must be messy, inventive. Sealed with many a kiss.
It corners me into the kitchen.

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Debbie Tunstall is a writer from Merseyside, United Kingdom. She has recently discovered writing and has finally found her sense of balance in life. She is featured in the anthology ‘Fireflies’ and recently in the ‘ Hope’ anthology. Her hobbies include reading and writing, inspiring others and a general interest in bettering others and her own mental health. She enjoys writing about moments that are uplifting, even if they’re unseen in the present, finally being able to see glimpses of photosynthesis beneath the dullness of life.