5.06.17 – to you

(A journal entry from last night)

You just wished people were kind.
Kind like dust
on an empty shelf.
Instead, they left you
in pretty crimson
and numb
like a broken clock,
but they won’t need you because
they have the sun.
And they hope
you left a note
because words from a dead person
is the last breath
of a punctured balloon
that could’ve kept it
or like flowers
on doorsteps.
Tell them they meant something,
make them feel good about themselves
so they can come
to your funeral
just to say how great of a person you were.
How funny they sound.
And they swore they liked you
and loved you
and missed you
and they keep reminiscing
about that single memory they were so sure
you were in.
Truth be told,
they wouldn’t even know
the difference
from your ashes
and god damn dust motes.



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