My 48-year-old sister jumped to her death on Thursday morning after decades of battling complex trauma. I’m still numb. I wrote this poem in her memory.
I always thought you’d die before most other people did;
and then it happened, but not like most other people do.
When we were young, I’d stare out the window at the darkness;
too frightened to wonder where you were,
praying you’d die peacefully in your sleep
from an overdose
because it would be better than dying afraid
at the hands of yet another creep;
Now you’ve died afraid
at the hands of the creeps
who never left your head,
and the ones who run a world where the cards were stacked against you from the start.