true crime

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.