Lonely little secrets are closing the coffin door on a perpetually quiet afternoon

She was buried wearing the brightest red, the whitest skin, and the blackest nails.

No roses were thrown onto the casket, only forlorn black eyed susans were there.

The news of her death was overshadowed by the death of a minor league baseball player.

Her closest friends barely knew her because she lived a lie, a tragic double life.

The tale of her life could fill a library, even though she was such a young maiden.

So this is her obituary written by a stranger but told by her ghost that whisperes in my ear.