People say it’s good to remember To not let memory die like an ember In the eyes of those who burn on pyres Who are dead and gone and burned in fires. When I see people who look like them And I wish I had stayed home instead And I often wish they weren’t dead And I wish I had quit whilst I was ahead And I wish people would stop telling me to remember When that day comes around in early December When l paint a fake smile on my face And pretend to forget all about the eighth. When I act like there’s no small twinge In the pit of my stomach, and that I don’t cringe When I see the old Facebook profile in my recommended And I cry when my emotions go undefended. People say it’s good to tell stories About what you knew about them and their glories But I don’t buy that. It’s rude and uncalled for Let me mourn in my peace; it’s all I am good for. When I cry in the bathroom on December the eighth Don’t ask me when I wash the tears from my face. Don’t ask me when I cry in early May Because I’ve forgotten the exact, world-shattering day. When I realise I can’t remember what they look like Don’t ask me why I go on off-school strike When I come into a classroom with red eyes Don’t ask, as a joke, ‘Oh, who's died?’ When I wake up one morning and wish they were there When I beg and I hope and I send up a prayer Only to wake up and really realise they’re gone And I smile, though I know it’s put on. And there are tear tracks in my mascara but it washes away And I’m ready for another, wrong-feeling day. Because I’m here, and they aren’t, and it's not really fair And I wonder if grief washes out of your hair. -Lilah Ainsworth