I went back to the scene,
of the many times she was murdered,
canvassing Camden Town,
to find her at 18,
at 21,
at 26.
I was too late.
Murdered,
by the man who told her he knew best,
choked to death,
by the flimsy fabric,
of the dress he insisted she wear,
and the false hopes,
shoved down her throat,
until she stopped breathing.
Murdered,
by the billion year old boy,
her corpse,
creeping into his room,
at his mother’s house,
hiding away with the beard dye,
and the other girls he broke on his travels.
Murdered,
on her search for who she was,
on a night of nostalgia,
where nothing was the same,
but she closed her eyes,
and pretended anyway.
That’s when I snuck up,
more gentle than the last,
and kissed,
with chloroform and kindness,
the girl they murdered,
finally at rest,
with the woman she became.
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Sincerely, Jennifer x 
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