Eyes coated in icy gloss and body draped in lace.
Skin so silky and pale,
nails chipped with black and grey.
Even your sultry lips,
everything was so familiar but so forgotten.

I felt sorrow for your helpless parents,
who cried tears of pretension.
They shall never know you,
nor your hazy thoughts you shared.
How horrid.

I recited a well rehearsed soliloquy into my skin,
in the hopes of your missing approval.
Perhaps morbidity and salty warmth can revive.
Do you see me now?
Do you witness me engraving my madness?

I can not blame you,
but I do.
I do for the sorrow, the deranged ache,
the lack of knowledge and memories,
and everything that dripped from my wrists.

Poor girl, with the icy eyes and sultry lips.
Poor girl who craved comfortable sadness.
Who craved the barrel of a pistol,
pressed to her skull.
That skull so packed with stories.

One horizontal and one vertical maybe.
Can I join you?
Can I lay so still and so zen, just as you do.
No. I can not. I shall not. I will not.
You're beyond and I am here.

So to hell with you and your potential,
your untold stories, your novel you never wrote,
your smoke and bourbon dashed breathe,
as you whisper Emily Dickinson quotes to me.

You left me here in this dystopia, without a savior.
Now I will pass your empty locker, and your seat in honors english,
I'll feed the cat who devoted itself to you, and I'll sit on the edge of your bed.
I'll look around your room and will focus only on your favorite book.
The one you read aloud to me in the park at midnight.

You're a ghost and you lay feet ahead of me in a casket.
You suffered from your own catastrophe,
and truthfully it's my fault I didn't listen deeper when you called.
Soon we'll be together again,
and you won't be alone in the darkness of the stories I never heard.

Did your icy eyes gloss over? Was your silky pale skin stained with crimson?
Did your sultry lips quiver,
and did your chipped nails tremble beneath the trigger.
I hope your eyes were soft just at that moment,
becasuse they were always so cold.