Your death hurts different
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
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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A young adult.