Grief Inexpressible: A Friday Night Exile
They love what you write until you don't fit their perfect sketch. This piece poured out of me on a Friday night, watching a community gather while sitting on the outside looking in. It’s a raw look at cultural shunning, unearned guilt, and that haunting question: was the warmth they gave me real, or just a beautiful lie? For every fellow rascal who has had to carry a heavy cross alone—grab a seat, this one is for you. Friday night returned, A crowd gathering to pray. I knew I was not welcome— Not allowed... Yet I could not resist the window, Watching children play beneath the lights. The only night the lawn lost its sanctity, And innocent feet could press the manicured green. A hollow space in my chest kept me awake. I waited for the courtyard to clear Before venturing down from my hostel room, Guarding a sorrow heavier than I could bear. Hours earlier, a professor’s sketch had portrayed A forsaken Christ, enduring the shame of the cross. The dam inside me finally bro...