Buried alive.

Decayed.

Rotten bones.

Barely skin and

barely known.

Waiting patiently by the fire

in the room you

once read,

your urn,

unturned,

sits with me again.

You linger in every corner.

As the years go on,

I rot alongside you,

but not in a grave.

I still can’t

take off the ring

because you are still here

in the kitchen with me.

Laughing.

Smiling.

Haunting.

Fighting.

Wine stained couches and

a packed suitcase

still untouched.

You’re still here,

screaming at me

because of her... me.

It’s my fault.

Maybe you’d still be here

if it wasn’t for what I did.

I wish I could take it back.

I want nothing more

than you to be sitting with me

by the fire.

Your in my bones,

my skin,

my hair,

my hands,

my arms,

my soul...

but so is she.

Written by Cass.

Guilt, ingrained in my childhood, inspired the piece’s depiction of its relentless grip on a person’s soul through fragmented, yet everlasting memories. Reminiscent of Sylvia Plath, the lingering tension that haunts the narrator exposes the raw emotional pain of unresolved guilt.