the girl who left,

you were mine, i shared my
beads and you held my hand.
in hindsight,

i knew you were dying.

your hair was leaving, bright 
blonde falling out in tufts, a sort
of honey glazed set of eyes rimmed
in red from things that were supposed
to make you better;

but you were the girl that left.

— 

we’re on a train, leaving
but arriving too. city lights
and multiculturalism waited for 
us. 

but you were just another 
person that god, couldn’t wait 
to have back.



when you’re little, and your parents
still love you and the colours still
attract you like magpies to gold and 
crows to death, when everything seems
like you live with jack and the beanstalk
and fairytales are the best bedtime stories,

we don’t know what death is, when we 
don’t know what mourning, grieving or 
tears because we’re sad, not empty mean. 



when we were three, we sat on trains 
going from the north to the south of
england, holding hands and being little 
girls in dress up and heels, garish bracelets
and lipstick smiles;

before my fourth birthday, you disappeared, 
losing your way to hollow bones

you became the girl who left.

———

when i was little, my friend died of leukaemia. it took me an awful long time to question her disappearance; i was too young to know of death and empty spaces.

✿ posted 3 years ago - Notes - reblog ✿


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