Let me tell you the tale of the girl who died twice,
As her bones sang for retribution beneath my dirty feet,
Chants filled the tomb with words I once embraced—her lies,
The violent wind hissed—asking why I let the girl have this fate.

I could still taste her tears the day she first died;
Still hear the echo of her cries as her beliefs crumpled down,
My palms remembered the blood scattered at her side,
Until this very time, her real body was never been found.

Years passed and we met again under the crescent moon,
She wore a smile despite the visible scar on her chest,
With no resemblance of the girl I saw playing every noon,
Instead, she held a book and told me playing was not part of her list.

The second time she died, she did not even weep,
There were no bloods or any telltale inside her room,
For I did not stab her again in the chest with the knife's tip,
Instead, I buried her in a coffin and sat above her tomb.

I could be the Cain and she could be the Abel,
But I never regret killing her and burying her remains,
For in her first death, I saw life would not go the way I will,
And fate was not toys I could control on my own hands.

I could be the snake, and she could be the Eve,
But I would never change the things I already did,
For in her second death, I learn to put the boundary between fiction and what was real,
And used it as my shield against the expectations I once wield.

Again, let me tell you the tale of the girl who died twice,
In the same hands I were using in writing this,
She was once me, and I became her twice,
And now in her tomb, I had risen—a poet with tears.

© HoneyKegod