At Derby Run

February 19, 2018
By Kayla Webb BRONZE, Louisville, Kentucky
Kayla Webb BRONZE, Louisville, Kentucky
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

I've learned how to grieve before a body hits the ground,
over an open casket;
before you unfurl like a wilted flower,
before falling petals make a sound.

Chances are I've written your eulogy,
composed it silently under my breath-
tucked scraps of you into my back pocket,
to read quietly to myself,
as your blood mingles with the sidewalk
and I turn around and reacquaint myself,
make a silent friend of your echoed laughter.

I won't scream at your funeral,
I too often let myself speak that language of loss;
It bubbles in my throat on the warm days,
rises like bile when we're trading smiles,
chokes a hand around my neck
while we breathe summer heat,
chasing the dim glow of fireflies
because one of us will never chase dreams.

I've learned how to grieve before a body hits the ground,
because I kill you long before can you die.


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