|Writing done by Rainbowfartz.|
If somebody asked me and wanted my serious opinion, I’d say that she’s still alive.
She’s still alive in the pictures she drew for me. She’s still alive in the picture of our peewee soccer team when she had her hair up in a messy ponytail. She’s still alive in the ring she left on our side table.
If somebody asked me and wanted the hard and cold truth, I’d say she’s dead. She’s dead in the way her side of the bed is still made up. She’s dead in the way the clothes in the closet still smell like her but she’s never going to wear them again. She’s dead in the way that she is reduced to ashes on our mantel. Our mantel.
I don’t want anyone to ask me again.
I don’t want to forget, but I do at the same time. I want to forget how sick she felt. I want to forget her tears. I want to forget every drink I forced on myself to make her scar wear away.
But, I want to remember how her hair felt after she took a shower. I want to remember her fingers buttoning up my shirt every morning. I want to remember the flutter of her eyelashes and the strokes of her hand on my back.
She’s alive. She’s dead.
She is dead.