Sparkatale

It’s funny
in a sick, twisted sort of way.
She was an artist,
an author who could paint a world
in so few words
and yet so vivid.
She always encouraged me
to pursue my ‘talents’
when no one else saw any value
in me,
or my ability to create.
She was my best friend;
she taught me to lie,
I got good at it,
but I never lied to her.
She lied to me, though,
she never told me what was happening,
she worried about me,
but she couldn’t stand when people worried
about her.

I kick myself;
I should’ve seen the scars,
the blood,
I should’ve seen the signs,
but I couldn’t.
I was still clinging to the idea
that there was true,
unhindered happiness in a world
where she only saw the dark.
It wasn’t her fault,
it was her mind;
it was Wolf,
and her deaf, high pressure family.
I hope they blame themselves
for what she did.

I think it’s funny,
in my sick, twisted sense of humor,
when she had finally had enough,
it was finally enough to spark something in me:
the desire-
the need to create.
I’ve become like her,
I let go of my ideology,
and let the world in
through the veins in my wrists,
swapping blood for brief, precious moments of silence
so that I can write in peace.
I’ve become just like her,
but I’ve got a reason to live,
and to hope to God there really is an afterlife:
to do her proud,
and to tell her,
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do more...’