After

After my blood stained my mother’s floor, she cried. She cried for days and days on end. She stopped taking calls, she stopped working, she stopped talking.

After my little brother found my body, he got silent. Dangerously silent. Friends no longer cheered him up, and video games were no longer an escape.

After my grandmother outlived her grandchild, she saved face. She lied to world and told everyone the family was moving on. Behind closed doors she resented the world that took someone so young from her.

After the bathroom floor was scrubbed free of what was once me, my dog spent days outside my bedroom door. Whining and clawing at the small gap between the wood and the carpet.

After my best friends heard the news, they all sobbed over each other. Strangers offered them condolences. But soon enough each of them lost the light behind their eyes.

After my name was chiseled in a stone, complete strangers stood over me. They cried for the person they wish they knew, or they person they wish they were kinder to.

After I died at my own hand, ripples ran through my community. Ripples that I didn’t even realize I had the power to create.

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Perfect Woman

Beautiful. You’re simply stunning. From your perfect hair, to your flawless legs. Maybe you can see what I do; at least I hope you do. A beautiful, confident woman who makes my head spin. A woman with the power to rule the world and then some. A woman without fear to hold her back. 

On the other hand, maybe you don’t see what I do. I understand. Maybe you see someone who is cowardly; someone who is hidden in the depths of the closet. Understand simply that because you cannot love others openly, does not mean you are cowardly. In other words, understand simply that your family’s hate does not define you. 

When I see you, I see more than the product of others. I see a person who I desperately want to be around, and I desperately want to love. Then again, maybe you don’t see those things in me; one can only dare to dream when someone as perfect as you wanders into their life. 

While I watch, a spectator to your majesty, I can’t help but feel graced. Graced to witness it all, graced to love you, graced to even share a space with you. 

Over-Thinking

I can feel your love slipping through my fingers every time we talk. We go from inseparable to barely speaking in a matter of days. 

Do you only care when it’s convenient? When you need someone to talk to in class? Maybe I’m simply over-thinking; over-analyzing. Maybe that’s just it. Or maybe I’m right. And you’re just too nice to say it to my face.