I was there at the grave when she received more flowers, more tears, as multitudes showed up, to proclaim what they never did when she was alive. Unembellished beauty and genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence, but you all killed her before her time. Pain was inconsequential compared with the anguish of life that she was going through. She had known her worth, and yet all she wanted was to be seen as worth living for. Her whispery voice slicing the air, at the grave. All she wanted was her hand to be held, her little efforts appreciated. Not sure she remembered how deep her dimples were, it was long since she smiled, wanting someone to notice and carry her weaknesses and embed them on his chest to be his honor. She had her own stuff and life in order, looking forward to coming home to someone, and shower him with all the love she had. Her fire was something many never knew how to handle, and so they left her to burn down, but like a phoenix, she rose up every time, never losing hope, and more determined to give love another shot. Unable to tell the difference between yesterday and today, she was growing fragile, holding on to what she knew not. Fearing going to sleep, afraid she would never wake up. Now, she was the type to live for, the type you are given by the universe, not because she’s frail, but she carries a whole world you’ve never seen nor experienced. The type to sacrifice her all just to see you happy, at her own expense. The type you lose and you spend the rest of your life regretting.
She was the force ultimately pulling your strings, but you never noticed, you never gave two shits about it. With a medieval attitude of how women should be seen and not heard, compartmentalizing her love, to fit your every need. now she lay 6ft below the ground, yet another victim of unrequited love. From the back of the mourning crowd, I saw you, how you knelt there by her graveside, clasping your hands like a supplicant, tears reeling down your cheeks, a bouquet of tulips by your knees, wet from your tears, praying and hoping for the impossible. A fool is what I called you, as I pocketed my hands heading away from the grave yard, maybe, just maybe we will all understand the metrics of how to handle the ones we love, before death got too comfortable and holds them in his arms.

Author: wachauchegejoyce

Born on 12th February 1998,I must admit I have a keen eye for some good writing,an avid reader,and I enjoy writing too. Currently I am studying at JKUAT, Bachelors of Mass Communication,aspiring and looking forward to be an editor.

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