They say I am like her,
and her,
but that is
blasphemous,
backhanded as
my sorrow must
bleed through.
Cannot make it
pretty,
there is no way
to make it
tender.
Cannot wish it into
a petal, a leaf,
there is no way
to warm the
sun.
They say I am like her,
but she is in
the dirt buried by
her own
hands-
and her hands
too!
She cried straight
into the
crypt.
Diagnosed with
the
disease of
death.
Do they also say
they hope
I end
like her,
or her,
too?
Questions I find myself stuck with when being compared to writers.