Grief

 Sometimes it's so broken,
there are no pieces left to put it back together.
The pain shattered it so completely, so violently,
that nothing but a black vortex of guilt,
of sorrow,
of neverending thoughts, reside there.
It spins, and it swallows, and it spits,
spits out all the bad, terrible things into your head,
where it anchors itself so that EVERY SINGLE DAY 
you can never stop thinking about the fact that your 
best friend took a shotgun to her head.
All the pieces, they are broken,
shattered, decimated, gone.
Nothing left, not there,
not anywhere.