oh, how beautiful she was when she finally died

all the anger and pain flew out of her eyes

and her face was relaxed in a tiny half-smile

but her hands weren’t yet cold, so i sat in denial

and outside the children’s laughter rang strong

i sat in her room, wondering where things went wrong

why all of their hands were warm, except hers

how this was the path i never thought she’d prefer

but only in death was she free from pain

from the struggles she dealt with which turned her insane

maybe i’ll be that lucky, to blow out like a flame

to have my face in the paper, and the world know my name

do you think that it hurts, to die when you’re young?

to go prematurely to the land you came from?

i think that it’s better than lingering here

where every word you speak burns in my ear

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