This is a poem about my dead friend:
she’s not dead,
not really,
but I was, for a while
and she wouldn’t visit me in hospital.
I think she had a sickness
because her words slide out too easily.
When I see her next
slurred,
mouth too wide
she’s exaggerated
a cartoon in motion.
It’s a while before the dam breaks,
not too long,
I’m still
recovering
and they reveal:
they’ve had a meeting.
It had an agenda,
someone took minutes,
they’re killing me
killing us
placing a clear divide
between life and death
the alive and the dead
and i’m not a part of their puzzle
anymore.
I don’t remember my food
(dead girls can’t taste)
but i remember crying
and how emotionless she was
maybe dead girls can’t feel.
One
or both of us
was missing some senses
severed at the root
to stave off the infection
I felt her death
like a phantom limb
but she’d gone numb
to mine.
MAX PERRY is a queer non-binary writer, student, and activist. They have a degree in Politics from the University of Southampton and are currently studying an MA in Conflict, Security, and Development at the University of Sussex. They write poetry, fiction, and non-fiction in their free time, as well as dabbling in cross-stitch and fandom, often at the same time. They are fuelled by chicken nuggets and rage at injustice, and they aspire to change the world through both words and action. Their tweets can be found @maxlper.