her corpse lies lifeless cold and pale
always chubby now seemingly bloated
white linen hiding the caterpillar cuts
she would often proudly display
shoulder to wrist and ankle to hip
awaiting burial or an oven's flames
i wasn't much of a brother to her
lost in my own stumbly journey
i a rag in the wind
she a source of darkness
blonde hair dyed raven
we were never close
i wouldn't let her
she was from another mother
who stole my father from mine
and all her babies
she just kept having babies
where are they
lost to the system
scooped up by distant family
those saints who volunteer
to raise another's meth child
and what could i have done
living in distant states
i could have listened at least
or called once in awhile
sent a card or a text
tried to help somehow
intelligent and creative
thoughtful too thoughtful
with thoughts that led to suicide
how did she do it
what was the last straw
her new husband
and their baby
didn't bring the joy she sought
i learned this morning in a text
her name and four more words
committed suicide on sunday
shock then guilt then tears
and more guilt
when did we last speak
when father died
6:40 A.M. when the text sent
while i meditated by the fire
embracing gratitude
enjoying the warmth
content to simply breathe
curing myself of suffering
while she lies dead by her own hands
society gone mad
no meaningful anchors for most
fairytales too easily rejected
arbitrary morality or amorality
lonely in a crowded world
magic sought in medicine
medicine for damaged minds
deadly medicine
i heal myself
to heal the world
selfish yet selfless
caring no longer careless
because suicide serves as
life's fiercest slap in the face