Sylvia

Sylvia

They put your face on walls

and your words in song,

tattoos of you so you can be

remembered by severed flesh.

Your bones, bleached white and pure

innoccence is now restored,

no more thought

this death is your reward.

Oh, how we like to gaze

upon every lingering words you

wrote,

every single attempt to end your life.

Your family, craving for your privacy

the public, lapping up the stories,

and the media using your body

and mind as script.

"Mind living on paper

and flesh living in offspring."

Syvlia, you lived like a queen

Sylvia, you died like a peasant.

Your religion was only that of life

and you never did really believe in it,

and though you loved the flesh

it was heart you wished upon,

it was brains you longed for

and death you poured yourself into.

So, this broken child you once were

never truly was a woman

and can never truly be at peace,

not with our tears still salty fresh.

Not with annivessary edition of your books

or special edition hard-backs.

You died as you were made,

a pale, broken body

a pale, broken heart

a child, a pupil and teacher,

         an idol, a decoration, a mantle-piece feature.