She loved butterflies. We weren’t friends anymore and the last time she spoke with me, she spoke with words doused in alcohol and a hurt heart.
When she had her good days she was an absolute delight to be around with. Bright, funny, delicate and caring.
Sunday she took her own life.
Years spend in solitude, in almost constant intoxication, fear and the thought of being a laughingstock. I saw her for the last time, last summer. With slight guilt on her face. Having chosen a side she thought was right. And later, like so many of us, explained her reasons in anger and accusations.
And then there is that goddamn silence.
What is this Earth after all when there is not a soul to share it with. No arms to hold you. Or eyes, of your own species, to look into when trying to understand life and it’s fickle ways.
Too young, too bright. She loved butterflies so so much.
Wherever she is I hope she’s one now too.