On Friday, I’ll die.
Before prom.
Before my poems are published
or even read.
Don’t know how or why,
but I do know when.
On Friday, I’ll die.
I don’t want to leave life.
I want to graduate,
hike across the country,
become an aunt.
I want to dance to something
loud and drummy.
I want my best friend
to be more.
Much more.
But it won’t happen,
because on Friday, I’ll die.
Don’t know how.
Don’t know why.
No one believes me, but I know.
In my bed, I write.
In my bed, I say goodbye.
In my bed, I feel safe.
But come Friday,
I’ll die.
* * *
Seeing her for the first time
in the ground,
name etched in stone above,
makes me feel small.
Tracing the letters of her name
with my fingers
spells out the emptiness
of my life without her.