She was drug out of her house stiff and cold.
And it’s strange because I was in the place next to her the whole time.
Practically a gasping witness to her murder.
It’s strange how while fingers throttled her neck,
I was probably swiping through my phone.
Rubbing oily fingers on a napkin.
She is dead.
And simultaneously everyone is still living. Even the one who killed her.
Almost as a punishment to her.
Almost as a gift to myself.
Stomach twists and long naps can’t help this.
Punching pillows and ugly screaming fits,
Runny noses and blaming dad won’t help me this time.
It feels like a curse to be so empty,
To allow people to fill you with isms.
With secrets that you must carry in the pit of your chest,
In the soft underbelly of a disgusting truth.
She was right next to me,
in that house where she died.
And I am responsible for such atrocities.