They put a curly, honey blonde wig on you, the color of hair you use to have before you dyed everything raven black. Your tight, sickening pale skin clung to your pores, and placid expression. Your eyes, which used to be a brilliant and enchanting blue, were closed so that those of weak mind, didn’t have to see the naked truth of pain. They tried to make you look alive, plastering your skin with artificial liquids. They gave you red lips; ironically the same color as your blood. You look like a clown, I thought. You hated clowns; in the end, you hated everything. I loved it when beams of pure golden sunlight broke through the trees penetrating the road. You complained that you couldn’t see and we would crash. During Fall, I wondered in amazement
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People blame the 9mm handgun, but that didn’t kill you; you were already a walking corpse. Your blood is still scattered across your Baby-Blue walls, like a starry northern desert sky. Your parents refuse to enter your room; they want to burn it to the ground. Forget everything and start over anew, hide the ugly past and live as happy-go-lucky imposters in the Suburbs. They put you in a black dress, with a white rose, ironic since you only saw the world in black and white. “Death is beautiful; life is a curse.” You stated. I disagreed. “Death is a promise; life isn’t." Life is more intense, exhilarating, painful, hopeful, adventurous, laughable, memorable and a savory lie. Death is the uncontrollable, and undeniable truth. “Let us live the lie,” I pleaded. “No.” I stare down at your face, numb. Angry. They don't teach about this in school; they don't teach the raw fucking truth that some people chose not to live on because they don't want to feel the pain anymore. Screw you. You gave up; you left, you turned that angelical soul into a dark pit of despair. I asked why for years. You had a whole family, while mine was broken. Your friends were there when you needed it. Everyone was always there. You had the charm and personality to be successful. You had everything. What
People blame the 9mm handgun, but that didn’t kill you; you were already a walking corpse. Your blood is still scattered across your Baby-Blue walls, like a starry northern desert sky. Your parents refuse to enter your room; they want to burn it to the ground. Forget everything and start over anew, hide the ugly past and live as happy-go-lucky imposters in the Suburbs. They put you in a black dress, with a white rose, ironic since you only saw the world in black and white. “Death is beautiful; life is a curse.” You stated. I disagreed. “Death is a promise; life isn’t." Life is more intense, exhilarating, painful, hopeful, adventurous, laughable, memorable and a savory lie. Death is the uncontrollable, and undeniable truth. “Let us live the lie,” I pleaded. “No.” I stare down at your face, numb. Angry. They don't teach about this in school; they don't teach the raw fucking truth that some people chose not to live on because they don't want to feel the pain anymore. Screw you. You gave up; you left, you turned that angelical soul into a dark pit of despair. I asked why for years. You had a whole family, while mine was broken. Your friends were there when you needed it. Everyone was always there. You had the charm and personality to be successful. You had everything. What