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She used to have shelf of problems
in her sturdy, pastel pink room.
The favorite of her everyday tragedies
were all series, novels, and trilogies,
but she swore she didn't like drowning.

She used to keep
her smallest and biggest problems
in her only shelf.
She didn't know
a bit of the technique of how
to keep it to herself.

Her eyes used to bleed transparency:
fragile tears and shattered glass.

But now, she's gone.

You know, we shared a similarity.
Her sins, her mistakes, and her flaws
were remembered
when they are problematic.

But now, she's buried
by her courage.

And now, my stomach is churning
instead of her, crying.

I'm turning to her space,
to her half-alive stone,
and I'll say what has to be said.

But now, the angelic beast
silenced her to give birth
to a prideful lady.

I said it anyway,
"You did well, honey."

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