“tragic,”
they say,
of this very day,
with their romantic notions of
suicide.
their poetic ideals -
let them know how it feels
to want to drown your lungs in
cyanide.

you are their queen,
clean and pristine
with the stain of death
on your shoulders.
dressed in black,
they mourn the loss
of the woman they’ll never get back.

and is it really being different
when we are all just the same?
and honestly,
we’re all just trying to keep sane.
you are our idol -
inspiration -
for committing the act
we all just envisioned.

(but if only you had stuck around -
they say it gets better,
that laughter is found -
and i’m starting to believe in a cure.)