People say death is poetic, refreshing; even beautiful. When a person becomes more numb and unfeeling than the edges of our icy hearts, you can sense that the worst is yet to come. Each possession that was once a dead person's is to be cherished and treasured to a greater extent than that person, in life, ever was. Cracked souls look down from above, smiling on the ones that they loved throughout their existance, and they are remembered more than we remember ourselves at times. The memories come in shards of glass that lacerate our entrails. Our hearts are incised and soon enough the blood beneath our fingernails becomes the blood streaming down our wrists. We bleach our skin to conceal the dirt that's splattered upon us from their grave. They were the ones that were buried and yet you will never have felt so immersed.
To lose somebody is to lose yourself.
It was November 11th. He was the only numb and unfeeling thing I could fathom, his unspoken words were a shard of glass crashing against my shattered eardrums, and oh gosh, I could feel myself die.
