Dearly Departed

Mourning of my Mother

Filthy little head won't cast out words,

So I absorb every metaphor someone else speaks, 

Hoping it's easier to breathe.

Layer by layer and stitch by stitch, 

Fabricating the guilt for taking what was hers.

This puts me back to where I started -

Derived from my Dearly Departed. 

So I get on my knees like a hypocritical Christian,

And I beg him to just listen. 

"If you bring her back I'll find my religion;

I'd do anything you asked -

This time will be different. 

Take me instead -

The word dead doesn't fit her."

It's been nine years,

She was twenty-seven.

I didn't bury her, she buried me.

Ash and urn and now I'm cursed by vivid memories.

Author's Note

I feel like this is too short. All critiques appreciated; No holds barred.