Self-obituary

She was a presence, she was an absence. For her flowers were the same. She loved the flowers near the grave as much as she loved her own at home. She slept in the blanket of fears and suspicion, the moon’s melancholic loneliness, her lullaby. She grew roses on skin and never let people touch those thorns. It scratched, bruised and left her bleeding, yet she embraced because hurt is her middle name. She was colours – black, grey, white. The dreams, sentiments, compliments she held were intact in memories of people she loved. 

It is not so easy to be her. 

She was strongly weak, bitterly sweet, glittery dull and beautifully painful. 

It is not so easy to love like her. Against all odds, against all even, she loved believing the least she could is that.

It is not so easy to be kind like her. It is not easy to hold hands like her, she held hands of a friend who shivered in the cold when she was 16 and never let it go eversince. 

It is not easy to be her,

She died proud for being an epitome of everything. She was known for her witty jokes and genuine empathy, for her impeccable ability to understand hearts and identify emotions. She sang for people she loved, cooked for people she loved more and wrote letters for people who were her home. She was home to happiness, sadness, ambition, exhaustion. She was a dreamer, painted starry nights on stones, froze skies and created collages. She was calm in the storm and the storm itself. She carried a sunflower in tongue and honey on lips, her words are pearls and you rejoice it as rhymes. 

She loved peace but lived in chaos, accepting it more merrily. 

She was too much for the world, but died thinking she was never enough.

//heartbeat paused forever murmuring lover’s name//