You are ash now.

Your bones have become dust,

your scars, your skin, your teeth.

My grief comes in waves

as you sit 

upon a bookshelf.

Untouched.

I cannot bring my arms to hold you;

I fear your fragile body

You are ash.

You fall through my fingers, 

so I mold you back to shape with my tears. 

I mold our hands back together again.

Although I can no longer feel your calloused palms,

or your freshly shaven head,

or your skin.

I can’t feel your skin.

I curse a God I don’t believe in 

for taking you away,

and in the same breath 

I plead and beg him to give you back.

You are ash.

I can’t look up to you,

I can’t hug you,

Love you.

I’ll never be your little girl,

your angel.

Your toothless smile 

has been burned away

along with your 

faded stick and poke.

You are ash.

I am left 

with your incinerated body,

blurry photos,

with the hope that I don’t end up like you.

I am left with nightmares.

Your chair will stay vacant.

My tears will build up. 

I will explode.

You won’t see me graduate or marry.

I have to carry you around my neck, 

in a picture on my cap.

It might be deserved.

As I complained about your 

drunk, drugged voicemails,

your body sat,

rotting.

Soulless. 

Alone.

I would have laid with you. 

I would’ve held your hand,

scratched your arm until rest.

I would’ve felt your last breath.

I am flooded with guilt,

my body lies limp,

paralyzed,

just as you did.

Your father is dead.

He’s in a better place.

We’re here for you-

Your daddy is dead, sunshine. 

He’s with God now.

He forgives you

Your father is dead.

Your father is dead.

He’s dead.

He’s dead

You’re dead.

You’re ash.

You’re ash now.

- 02/16/24