When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.
I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.
I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.
Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.
I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.
I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.
I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.