I was the oldest,
So I should’ve died first,
But now you’re buried in the ground,
At only twenty-one years young,
They say you were hung,
And now I’m listening to sad songs,
Did you hate us all that much,
That you hung yourself in a rush?
As I stare at your face,
Your skin is dull and looks like white paste,
Yet your lashes are still their natural curls.
I had always been one of those girls,
Who fawned over your blue eyes,
As if they were a carnival prize.
But now you are gone,
How am I supposed to move on?