would have taken her side anyway.
The girl wasn’t loved
she was sympathized with.
“I’m writing these poems anyway.
when I die they aren’t gonna be pathetic no more
they’re gonna be pretty.
they’re gonna remember whose heart it is that they’re carrying.”
Thank you for the brief sense of relief
from the illusion of being heard and accounted for.
for the slightest chance to be remembered and cared for.
I’m letting you know that you did good.
For every last notes turned poetry.
For every scars you soothe into believing healed.
“I wrote one for myself- a eulogy.
If no one remembers me after my death
then at least let me.”
Here’s to the poetry she left the world.
It was not for nothing.
“When I die they’re gonna be remembrance
of how my heart too was once beating.
how intense the love that it was holding.”
She said remember me as is.
remember me like this.
like the poetry.
so intense it snapped in my fingers when I wrote it.
When she was alive I witnessed her
ripping her organs out of her crumbling body
I saw her tear them down into pieces
and then paste them down onto the pages.
all in bad metaphors and fickle phrases.
She stayed alive like this.
She was that kind of person.
Always trying to make everything inside of her
feels like theyre readable.
like they somehow make sense.
That kind of person.
always trying to calm them down.
make them be bearable a little
just for a while just for as long as the stanza stretches.
“Here lies she. Selfish
for taking care of herself.
Died. Because she no longer did.”