Your death as poetry

you are not the poetry i’m used to. you are skin and bones and all the things i cannot say because i am too afraid to admit them. i am a coward: i did not say goodbye and i knew i would regret it. 

despite my greatest efforts your death was not poetry. it was messy and i panicked and now i have nothing to show for it. no words no memories. 

my greatest regret is not knowing you. (i thought i did.) but now words that never came out of your mouth remind me of you: almonds, blue skies, daisies, the color white. 

inevitably it all comes back to you. 



16 years old

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  • to be a person.


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    i am numb to the days that pass