Content warning: this piece centres on death (non-explicit) and grief.

How to force oneself to wither

The boy mourned
for you. His solitary walks
had him trampling
flowers into the dirt.

Pretty things weren’t allowed to exist anymore.

The broken petals bowed
in a new shame and
the boy tried to find power in it.

The day after your funeral,
the boy went home and smashed
every mirror he owned.

He could not erase the word ‘pretty’ from your lips.

In dreams he tried to strangle curses
out of a dead man.
Anything to make him bitter
                                        and ugly
                                                  and worthy to stay.

You couldn’t lie to him; he was still so beautiful.

Bad luck seeped
through the cracks of the
house you once called home.

The boy, pretty
and dressed in grief,
did not see himself staying here
much longer.

About the author

Eli Rooke (they/them) is a queer, trans poet with a love for stories that embrace identity and the human condition. They have a passion for collaborative storytelling, and believe the best stories are the ones created with others. Eli is currently obsessed with Arkham Horror, and is creating a campaign that centres queerness and love at the end of the world. You can read and keep up to date with their work here: https://linktr.ee/eli.rooke

Photo by Batuhan Doğan on Unsplash.