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.