panacea iv.
I didn’t go to Alice Vex’s funeral.
It’s not like I needed to, though.
All over the internet
there were photos of her
beautiful mahogany coffin
(closed because her face
was too scratched up
and people only like looking at
pretty things)
and her marble gravestone
with the gigantic cross
on top.
There were newspapers
crying because her death was
“such a waste of a pretty face”
and everyone was too obsessed
with what could’ve been
to wonder what
could’ve happened.
It wasn’t my fault.
I knew who’s it was, though.
It sat on my desk,
mocking me,
even when I slept.
I started calling it Einstein.
YOU ARE READING
glitch
PoetryI am a monster. Everybody knows it, but they're too afraid to say it out loud. My body's made of static and dead skin cells, and I don't know if knowing that i'm a failure is what makes me sad or if it's the fact that everyone else knows i'm a failu...
