Lucky Unfortunate Eleven

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
11 was once their lucky number before their loved one died now they are obsessed with it.

Submitted: October 28, 2014

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Submitted: October 28, 2014

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Eleven sleepless nights,

Eleven footsteps on the stairs-

But you’re never there.

You never came home.

Eleven toss and turns and

I thought I heard you whisper in my ear-

“You’re not alone.”

I can’t help but think what happened that night:

Were you drunk- Were you high?

Did you stumble off a cliff-?

Or did you just not want to say goodbye…

I’ll just plug my ears so I don’t have to hear you crying.

So that I can forget that you’re dead -

And that I’m still dying.

Eleven years that we spent together

And there I was thinking things were gonna be better.

It was eleven days you were missing-

Until everyone gave up.

Not me, I searched until I threw up eleven times.

I found your body and I song you eleven hymns and eleven rhymes.

Why did your death have to be so brutal?

Eleven songs were played at your funeral

But those sad songs weren’t long enough

To represent how long I’ll be without your love.

It’s like I have eleven splinters stuck in my heart.

I tried to pull them out but they really hurt,

And they don’t wanna leave.

It’s like all they wanna do is make me bleed more and more.

I still keep the door unlocked at night,

In hopes you’ll be back,

coming through the door with eleven grocery bags shaking in your hands,

And only eleven eggs because you broke one on the way.

But we would just laugh.

Who cares about the food-

I just want you.

I wanna keep you and hold you-

Maybe the happy moments can last us forever,

Or at least until I get better….

But I don’t.

The T.V. still plays your eleven favorite shows,

And I bet your phone still says “11 missed calls”.

Soon, I take down the eleven pictures of us we hung on the wall.

I just want to burn them all.

I still have eleven secrets I never told you.

Theres so many things I did wrong-

Too many to count it would take so long.

Maybe I’ll just shoot myself with your favorite gun,

So that my last eleven words will sit forever on the tip of my tongue.


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