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Stages of Grief
I killed a man last Thursday.
Not intentionally, of course.
I am not the kind of person to do something like that intentionally.
After all, it barely even happened.
It was a car accident.
Not as if I shot him in the temple with a musket, which is what a real killing is.
That type of thing is what makes a real psychopath.
The most asinine part of it all, is why was he there?
Still, I do not know.
I’ll never know.
A life ruined for another man's stupidity.
My life.
The late evening hours, walking in the middle of the road.
You have to be asking for it.
And who are you?
Who are you to have burdened me with shame and lingering looks every time my smile falls?
I’m enraged.
And I have every right to be.
You’ve changed my life forever.
And I hate you, I do.
But I would do anything to bring you back.
Sometimes, in the morning, when I wake up, I have this sense of airy relief.
As if I’ve recently exited the womb-
No sins.
No good deeds.
And nothing is better than being alleviated of the weight of the world, if even for a split second.
Everything I’ve done now is gone.
Not physically, of course, but in spirit.
Your death has consumed me, in body and spirit.
To visit Anubis now is a promise that my heart weighs heavier than the feathers.
And why?
Because something as simple as a late night and eyes drifting off the road?
I can’t do anything now.
Anything I do won’t matter.
Because the only thing at the forefront of my mind will be you.
Worst of all, I don’t even know your name.
But your mangled face is all I can see in every mirror, every picture, every movie.
You’ve ruined my life.
And I hate you.
And I’m so incredibly sorry.
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This poem is about the effects of serious and unexpected grief can have on you, and how people often cope with tragedy, especially ones they had a hand in.