One day, when someone finds my body lifeless on the floor,
during the autopsy,
after the funeral of a girl who won't be missed,
they will search for an answer as to why or how this happened.
They will pick apart the days, weeks and months that led up to this.
They will question family and friends, who know absolutely nothing of it.
They will tear into me with large silver tools;
into my brain, my liver, my stomach,
and still have yet to find a cause.
Then, they will come to the cold, lifeless heart
sitting in my chest.
They will tear into it and pull out tiny pieces of something they've never seen before.
They will set them aside and move onto my lungs,
tearing into them, they find more of the little pieces.
Again, they'll set them aside.
They bring in the family, the friends, the suspects, the police
and pull out of the small tray of fragments.
My mother or one of my friends will grab the tray.
They look, closely, then shake the tray a bit;
shift the pieces.
Everyone watches as they slowly pieces slowly come together and form your face.
My mother cries,
you knew this would happen.