She
You seek out conversations with people in your past and ask them to remind you of who you were. Because you can't remember. What was I like? Questions you never had the courage to ask before now. Like, what did you think of her? Was I pretty? What did you think of her? She was only a skin I put on. And now I don't recall her at all. Like a stranger. A blurry photograph. She feels like a distant memory a fractured dream. And I wish I had known her better. I should have been kinder to her. Looking back she didn't deserve to die like that. Abruptly. The life was choked out of her. That's why those years felt like such a struggle. She really fought. But in the end, she had to die so that I could survive. Soft things don't belong in a hard world.