Walking On The Sun

I don’t know how to start this poem. 
I’m lost.
I was thrown into a bitter,
moth-eaten
world covered with soot and ash. 

When I cried—
No. When I sobbed—
there was no ghost. 
There was no feeling that she was 
there, watching over me. 
I didn’t hear her voice. 

Movies romanticize death. 
They romanticize it to a point
where it doesn’t look painful. 
It doesn’t look tragic. 
It doesn’t make someone angry.
It doesn’t make someone feel guilty. 

The first words I said
after I heard
were 
“No. No.” 

I sobbed for 20 minutes. 
Only 20 minutes, because 
I had to go
to school. 
School. 

My voice wavers when I speak now. 
Will it stay like that?
I can’t focus in class, because I’m thinking of
what happened.
Will it stay like that?
Smiling is like walking on the Sun. 
It burns, and it will
kill me.

I have a scarf
she made.
It used to hang on the handle of my closet door. 
It’s scratchy, with colors of white,
blue,
purple,
red,
pink. 
Before school,
I hung it on the edge of my desk.
It’s one of the only things I have
that are my own
that remind me of her. 

I hope she slipped away peacefully. 
That’s all I hope for. 

6:15 AM. 
Now I have another reason to hate
that time.