June 19th, 2012
My dreams
are not dreams at all.
Nightmares.
Filled with sickening images
of your death.
When I found you,
you were draped in
white silk.
I recognised it as
your mother's gown.
When I found you,
your hair was up in
the most intricate braid,
one I had taught you
when you were a child.
When I found you,
your lips were stained red,
your eyes glazed over.
I could barely contain my scream
of terror and guilt for not stopping this.
Your eyes were the
most tranquil, lying there,
that I had ever seen,
yet I never understood the
pain hidden in them before.
What,
Little Ballerina,
what was
so wrong,
that you should
end your life?
Why,
Little Ballerina,
were you so angry
with yourself,
so sad
with your life?
Why,
Little Ballerina,
did you choose to
end your life like
this?
Did you want someone to find you
with this rope around your neck?
You're gone.
I stand here
now,
holding your
weapon of choice.
All I ask...
Why?
