They will say
Her sadness ate her,
slowly, in pieces,
munching on her
the way children whose mothers work two jobs
palm a cookie with both hands.
Maybe someone
who never struggled to breathe will ask
what happened to her?
To make her so sad?
We don't know, they will reply,
shaking their heads.
But we would see her late at night
chasing after waning moons
and dancing under pregnant clouds.
She ran alongside seething rivers
and found rest in the nightmares of others.
Maybe one of them,
remembering me differently, will disagree
but another will interrupt, excitedly,
her mouth was a gaping wound,
smeared in lipstick
and she knew how to love,
only from a distance.
She was too busy chasing beautiful
to keep still,
they will say, their faces
shadowed by the campfire,
that is what killed her.
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