You were twenty-seven.
You lived and died.
You died a thousand deaths before you stopped breathing.
You told me you wanted to die,
but we both knew you were dead already,
dead to life.
You enabled yourself to die,
to be capable to live.
You killed yourself,
a piece at a time,
your feelings first.
You fried your brain.
You burned your body.
I still see you sitting there,
your hair just starting to grow in,
your eyebrows a thin line of stubble.
It was the loss of your third child that took you down.
Denied access.
You cried.
You cursed while beating the keyboard,
begging, manipulating, threatening
your baby’s father online.
You agonized out loud,
helpless,
and yet . . . you held out hope.
Over time it faded,
but not your anger or despair.
They built and found a way,
aided by chemicals,
taking over your mind,
dehumanizing you.
You showed up half clothed and ate like an animal,
survival was all that was left.
Your life could no longer be reconciled with living,
death becoming an answer to life.
It lasted longer than expected,
but it came,
confirmed by the coroner in one word,
“Deceased.”
The obituary talks about two children back home,
not the third,
the one I met when you were still able to laugh.
I cannot picture it anymore,
your life jaded by overwhelming sadness,
your death by relief.
You stare at me from the death-notice,
a melancholic peace in your eyes,
a smile from a time before times,
and I know,
I never really knew you,
only what you had become.