You can’t die

This is an out-of-body experience. You said you’d be there. That it was us, us against the world.

You died on Monday on the way to my house. You ran into a pole going way too recklessly fast.

You were 2.5 hours late and probably trying to make up time.

I hate you for that.

You left me with this big mess.

What am I going to do with this mess?

How do I help Jackson through this?

You have concert tickets on the 22nd. He wanted to know if you were still taking him.

He keeps calling your phone. To be honest, so am I.

The stages of grief have been coming out of order, giving everyone whiplash because of my mood swings.

You left us and you were the love of our lives.

I guess this stage is the rage part.

I feel so guilty for hating you.

I am dizzy with hunger, but I can’t eat. I’ve no one to give me my shots, and I need one as of yesterday. Two days behind now.

I am dying on the insides.

They say you burnt up.

Nothing left but teeth.

So instead of your beautiful face filling my dreams,

A burnt skeleton with white teeth has made its

debut in my waking hours and rare sleeping minutes.

I love you.

This is my first letter to you. I will never be the same, and I will never be OK.