You appear on every clock for one minute everyday, a whole 60 seconds for your tragedies that you create.
Do your heels have scars from walking over glass?
You couldn't deny the pills that day.
The numbers nailed to the walls, they are now marked on your arms.
And they wouldn't speak, not that you are as important to me.
The colors flash like screens from behind closed doors.
I remember repeating "This has to be a dream.", but blood stained shirts aren't imaginary.
Come play with your friends while we cry on the neighbors porch.
Shoving this catastrophe down my throat, I prayed it would come back up.
All the things they told me not to become was what I already was but I nodded along.
They told my sister to be strong for us but she held me in her arms that night.
I slept next to your picture, fell asleep telling your image you'd be okay as if that could somehow fix things.
But you say this may never recover with shaky hands and I want to laugh because I understand why more than any other.
