The dark clouds of November.

I put you where you are.

I lifted the small box,

Into the fresh ground.

I clawed at you,

Yelling "good-bye!",

From across the room,

As I was dragged away.

I was the girl,

In the black dress.

I sobbed,

Until my head ached.

Sometimes I still do.

I spoke of you.

With no lies,

Held between my teeth.

I placed a solitary flower,

On top of your silk lined bed.

For nights after,

I smothered my screams,

In a pillow.

I was the girl,

In the black dress.

Every Tuesday was cursed,

And still is.

I phased in and out,

Of internal awareness,

For months.

I still cry on Tuesday's.

I still see,

The many faces.

They were confused.

Only a young man..

I'd hear them whisper.

I was the girl,

In the black dress.

I was not confused.

I was electrocuted.

Pulses of grief and rage,

Shot through my extremities.

I yelled.

I cursed on a priest.

I ran my hands,

Up and down your chest,

Feeling the autopsy incisions.

Today is the first of November.

Today is Tuesday.

I'm still the girl,

In the black dress.