Dead Women

Ambiguous Loss

My joy stands in congruence with imposter.

Of all that I couldn’t be, of all that I am.

I can't bathe and wallow without fraudulence.

To change is a step.

To mourn what once was is a lifeline.

I wondered why heartbreak never strangled me like my memories

as if I don't mourn her every October.

Under a birch tree, I cry for what once was.

And what will never be.

I am always yearning for all that I’ve known

and always wishing for all the unknown

There's a pain that I hold dear like a deceased daughter

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I’m not sure if I'll ever get as close to anyone

as the girl I saw die.

I write about dead women with murderous intentions

Dead women held a sense of presence

A pain encompassing all

I wear heels all day and wonder why my feet bleed

I tend to jump between feelings

Scoff at thoughts she wallowed in

I rarely rock my pain. She cradled hers

I tiptoe around the hallway. She examined the carpets

When I cry, it is for all

For her.

For all she absorbed.

I share in puzzles, leaving pieces for her.

I write about dead women in passion,

attempting to pass time they didn't create.