Any place that you’d see her,

wasn’t where she’d want to be.

And all those times you’d see her,

what you’d see was just debris.


Sometimes I can still hear her,

when she was 8 and would preach:

“Why would people kill themselves?

If you give up, then you’re free”


Oh, she wasn’t anywhere

and every step would break her.

She would dream and then shards of

reality would take her.


Can’t remember the future.

“No, really,” she’d say, her voice high,

“the surrendered are free, so

who would ever choose to die?”


But oh,but few of you know

how she’d work to protest now.

Her jaded lines and uncut hair,

like the thread that holds her down.


She can’t bring herself to live.

She knows she’s of partial blame.

She’s still sewing a life which

like her death, are a coward’s way.



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