sick

on

 

He’s gone, forever.

Am I

upset? Relieved? Empathetic?

It’s not real unless

I see a body or a funeral, or

is it?

I don’t know.

 

Everyone knows

they are upset,

coping, not coping,

freed.

She is free,

liberated.

Free to escape

all shackles but her own.

 

What did he do?

To others? To me, to himself.

Why did he do what he did.

Does it matter?

How can it matter?

How can it not?

His hands. His breath. His…

Sick,

I feel sick.

 

Put those thoughts away

in the quaintest little box

and shut them right the fuck up.

 

Forgive but not forget I say.

Who cares

what everyone else says?

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