Tomorrow I'm supposed to work all day.
Tomorrow I'm supposed to sell people coffee and ladies' underwear with a smile on my face, as if nothing's wrong, as if the pain my heart isn't trying to kill me.
But it is wrong. Everything feels wrong.
Tomorrow all I really want to do is stay in bed and sleep. But I can't. I can't just not show up to my jobs because my Papa's been gone for a whole entire year and I'm sad and I want to cry and scream and yell at God and everyone else because I miss him and because it hurts.
Because it hurts.
If only it worked like that.
If only we could call in to work or school and say, "I can't come in today. My heart hurts too badly." And they would reply, "Oh, I completely understand. Take the day off, come back when your heart hurts less."
Because they would understand that when your heart has this much pain inside it can be debilitating, crippling, and they would also understand that sometimes it's not a matter of the pain going away, just hurting less.
But the world doesn't work like that.
When the pain we're holding in threatens to undo us, the world doesn't often care much. "Work anyway," it says. "Pretend everything is fine," it says.
So I suppose that's what I'll have to do. Pretend it's fine.
Pretend I'm fine.