She was seventeen and tired of waking up.
No note, just a shattered mirror
and silence in a red bathtub.
They buried her behind the church,
next to a man she didn't know.
Just another name on a headstone,
a short lifetime carved in granite.
Sometimes I leave flowers,
hoping someone will notice
and pause, at least long enough
to read her name.
I don't think anyone does.
The world forgot her,
just like she knew
it would.
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