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