She rests 6 feet underground in an unruffled wedding dress.
First dance was held between the clouds and she was probably barefoot.
Rose gold casket lined with red roses and smudged goodbye kisses.
Her hair still soft and blonde; pretty manicured nails kept from the week before.
Pictures of prom, slumber parties and beach days.
We're all still around.
Angie knows more than we do; her face told me so.
Her insides are free - ours are not - we desperately kick and scream to feel release.
We medicate to numb and self-destruct to feel.
The webs we weave are tangled and sticky.
I cried in frustration; the priest called it a paradox and I was relieved.
Who are we to say what is and isn't fair?
There's another form of death; not the kind Angie ventured into, but the living kind.
The kind that threatens our mentality and heart.
A living death that binds us from loving freely.
Turning relationships into parasites and heavy oxygen tanks.
A deceitful dark demise; drowning us in fears and insecurities.
Hardening us to our brothers and sisters.
