Your death hurts different from the friends I've lost
to misunderstanding, to unmet expectation, to lust I feel scraped clean by the butter knife of grief a used-up jar searching for closure, something to fill all the echo and past tense inside Maybe this is what they call resignation, this kind of loose-limbed falling But the living haunts me like acid aftertaste a bite mark that won't stop bloodying my tongue every word betrays the drowning I'm doing How do I mourn you well when I'm still regretting all the funerals I will not attend for people who I love âand love me not?
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KatA young adult. Archives
April 2020
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