Nobody ever tells you about the guilt

They don’t tell you about the dull ache inside your ribs, or that you’ll see someone with the same dishwater blonde hair across the street, and when you do your heart will leap into your throat, begging you to cry out but choking it silent with a thump thump- they never tell you that each day you were too busy to call you were too busy to write you were too busy busy busy is another minute you’ll spend crying when they’re below you in the dampness, cold, stiff, quietly uninhabited. Nobody ever tells you about the guilt-

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