They don’t care about the girl,

they care about the splatter.

 

Before the deadly September

fate abandoned you.

 

Now, at the age of 37

and again at 22

fate claims you,

forces them to look.

 

Awoken by your broken body,

the same decadent one from before

their eyes peacefully invade.

 

Mouths gape at afforded opportunities

to caress and trace

fresh outlines of your final landing.

 

The fatal fall of

twin bodies

once rejected,

twice erased.

 

They let responsibility hide away.

Leave him be

to crawl underneath, to flee.

 

Even when we forget about the why

and just ask how

he still remains.

He stands there, protected.

 

It’s not the hand that pushes

or the blade that lands

that’s to blame it is him, and they.

 

Those who preserve the body that

stands and ignore the bodies that fell.