this irony lacks beauty

A Poem by rachedie

sometimes people leave

eight years is so very young
to be faced with an alternate reality
of much, much worse
for much, much longer.
so when you say you have to go
and I paint a ‘why’ in the air
and receive a handful of excuses,

I am never quite right, inside or out.

and the day I figure out ‘why’
(roughly one hundred and eight
months later)
I meet brick angrily and brokenly
because I understand all too much,
all too well.