I stare at a pale body in puzzlement. “Who is she?”

 

Her bruised lips and famished body felt familiar, yet her facade was tarnished appearing scarlet.

 

As though she smeared her mother’s lipstick up and down her face like a child.

 

Her body lies in a casket, no heartbeat, yet I sense her liveliness.

 

“Am I going crazy?”

 

In frustration, I look around and realize that I am dressed in obsidian.

 

A death, of whom?

 

I wipe off the shade of scarlet with my blouse unveiling who lies underneath. 

 

I am glancing at a reflection of my dead body.

 

Now an empty casket with a pitiful crowd.

 

My body.

 

The air feels brisk and my face goes merlot.

 

My body.

 

Trembling hands and racing hearts is all I feel.

 

My body.

 

How can a heartbeat so lurid not be heard?

 

The culprit had to be those ivory pills.

 

It had to be those razors blades in which she calls friends.

 

She stares at me with confusion.

 

My hands wrapped around her neck.

 

She slips from my fingertips with ease.

 

She was at peace with the sweet noise of death, yet she escaped it every time.

 

Her neck decorated with an invisible noose

 

I accept her as my own into my body.

 

How are we one within the same?

 

Same body.

 

Same heart.

 

Yet she’s in so much pain.

 

A mirror to my past.

 

A part of myself that I so neatly tucked away.

 

What a fool I was.

 

For you do not bury away a part of yourself in a graveyard of identities.

 

The rotten soil would just make them beseech for more.