Liz,
I saw you on Christmas
at church in a black dress and pearls
we made light conversation
as we fill filed out with the postlude
31 days later, an ambulance picked you up from your friends house
there were no lights, there were no sirens
the obituary told me it was an accidental ****** overdose
you were 21
I wish i had seen the bruises on your arm that christmas
before I walked into the snowy night
Liz,
your funeral was held at the same church where I saw you last
where we spent all these years
as the postlude drew to a close
we studied the back of wooden pews
we asked ourself the same question
"Would I have been able to help?"
we beg the walls for answers
but they offer no reply
Liz,
If I saw the bruises, would I have known?
If I had known, would I have the courage to say anything?
What would I have said?
I could've given you a scared-straight talk
with warnings and statistic
shown you before and after pictures
ripped from a health textbook
but spitting facts into the face of an addict
is like lecturing someone of the dangers of riptides
when they're six miles from shore
rambling about 3rd degree burns
to someone trapped in a burning house
but how do I keep forgiving from becoming ignoring?
how do I stop helping from bordering on ratting out?
I want to to get help but I don't want you to resent me
God, what I would give
for you to hate me right now
Liz,
my mother discussed your passing
with friends with red wine lips
"Oh, Liz? Yeah- my son said she was a ****** kid"
a ****** kid, not the pastor's daughter
or the mission trip veteran,
not the day care teacher, or the prankster,
not the angel in the 2006 Christmas play
Where is the line between good and bad?
how many track marks does it take to turn a girl into a statistic?
how far in must one drive the needle to be reduced
to the trope of a ****** kid
how many melted milligrams does it take to wash away the good qualities
and leave behind a skeleton of a girl we once knew
Liz,
they say you're gone, you're in a better place
but God i know you're still here
I see you in the flowers, skirting the steps of the church
I hear you between the harmonies
of all the hymns
I can feel your presence
breathing out from the cracks in the stone walls
I see you in coffee shops
and in restaurants and on the streets
mocking me to do a double take
before I remember
and you know we have forgiven you
as we have wailed it at the stained glass
I really hope you have learned to forgive us
Liz,
I saw you christmas eve
black dress and pearls
you died 31 laters
you were 21
I wish I had seen the bruises on your arm
I wish I could've helped
old poem, another slam poem into written