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eva-louisePoems
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
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Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
Needles and Crosses
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
#death#drug#old#long#mourning
Written by
eva-louise
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
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