Sitting with the Afterlife

Her skin rots purple and beige,

her dress torn to show decade long shallow strolls,

the bags, grey and black, hang beneath her hazel eyes,

as if to show you, her existence seems sad,

although in her heart, still beating,

she is comfortable in her grey world,

Wandering curiously, she is quiet and lovely,

but deep down the hallow shell where she is supposed to be,

is deserted and unloved,

haunting the living is pointless,

but to haunt herself feels normal,

six feet under isn't far enough to bury what wears out her soul,

Sitting with ghosts in the afterlife is easy when you feel invisible in life.