I died Tuesday; and I die little deaths every day that we aren’t talking. 
It’s been three days, so I should already be prepped for my own funeral. There are dark circles under my eyes, but the mortuary artist will cover those with ivory concealer. 

Will you be there with your father’s gold cross on your neck? It’ll be the only thing keeping you from blending in with the rest of the dreary blackness of my funeral procession. Will you finally talk to me? I want to tell you I’m sorry. My lips have been glued together, though, to prevent my nasty swollen tongue from poking rotting purple at my grieving family. 

I wish you’d kiss me. I wish this coffin bed was like Rose, Aurora, the lovely Sleeping Beauty’s eternal resting place. I’d wake up. I’d let everyone know that it was our lost contact, not suicide, that killed me. 

Please come for me. Please take my soul like my own personal Death if it means you’ll forgive me. I miss you. 

The funeral bells toll. 


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