She says that she is not afraid of death.
She says that she is ready whenever the grim comes.
But in her eyes, I can clearly see that the grim reaper came for her,
long time ago.
I can clearly see that he kissed her, and stroked her hair out of her face,
I can see that he promised her heaven,
Then opened the gates of hell.
In her eyes there's something lost,
A glimpse of innocence,
A trace of sanity.
She told me about her heartbreak.
She told me about how she was a mess,
About how her heart was a mess
About how she told her mother,
And her mother wept.
And I said that it always happened that way,
I said that love isn't good unless it is ruining.
I said that that a first love is always the most devastating.
But I am scared,
scared for her,
scared for this friend of mine with a dead stare,
and an aftertaste of bitterness and tears.
Scared for this friend of mine who comes to school with messy hair
And black eyeliner,
And heart on her sleeve,
Still managing to look pretty,
Still managing to look like art.
Still forgiving him.
Still dying every time.
YOU ARE READING
My loved ones; a journey.
Poetry“Perhaps one did not want to be loved, as much as to be understood” George Orwell.
