I find myself rehearsing the lines while I stand over your tombstone.
“How did it come to this?”
I ask you this question but your answer is silent.
I rehearse more lines while tears paint my eyelashes and cheeks.
“I wasn’t supposed to be this young.”
The wind howls with my words.
“I wasn’t supposed to be on my own!”
My knees kiss the grass and my shoes get coated with mud.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this!”
I try to finish the line but I get choked by my cry.
It echoes throughout the court yard.
“This wasn’t planned, this wasn’t wanted!”
My scream is a thunder.
“He was loved, he was wanted.”
I read your name over and over again until I smash my fists on your date.
Blood is running from my hands and I look to the sky, blinded by the rain.
“So tell me,”
I scream one last line before falling over and letting myself become one with your grave.
“How did it come to this?”