**tw's: death, grieving, sui implied, police**
& everyone i knew
needed august to be kind to them. now,
for a childhood, i was nothing
to be kind to. & when i was,
all my friends decided not to stay.
(i). we called every week & spoke most days—still,
how i learnt more about
him in death than in life,
how the day
after i found out the sunlight was mockingly bright,
how his chest had felt tight,
& we'd spoke about how
i had stopped breathing some
summers before.
i'd said
don't you go stealing my moves,
& we'd laughed & joked, planning
a silly little funeral. something
about a viking send-off, he'd said
& five days later, he was dead.
(ii). & then when she was quiet for
a few days—how the police had said she was okay—
& then she was
not. how they found her body
& how i threw things at the wall.
(iii). how i'm going to a funeral next week,
a memorial in november,
i am weary, but what can i ask of them?
& how now i know more
dead than alive, how i stay
cooped up, sitting inside.
too scared to know anyone too hard
in case the skies end up more ash than cloud—
(iv). —& so, did they find a little thing of something in me to love? watch me shatter it—oh, see how i'm so weary now?
all my friends are dead—
& the rest of them may as well be—
yet still—how i finally cried a little about her last night. they say it's good, i think it's bad, how i sometimes sink
into all but a hard-edged memory—
of favourite colours & words
of plans made but never done
of how it should be me in the ground—
until i hear them say
this hole is not your grave—get out.
YOU ARE READING
body work
Poetry**for fans of plath, anne sexton & ocean vuong** 'body work' is a captivating collection of poetry that delves into the depths of human experiences, exploring the intricate relationship between the physical body & the emotional & spiritual realms. w...
