Her ruined
defiled corpse,
lying there
on a slab.
A cellar
In the pit
deep below
the royal
hospital
Where, today
Saints, angels
Fought to save
her young life.
She defeated
all of them.
Cheap plastic
crucifix
behind her.
Out of sight,
plastic Moon
a crescent;
holy Star
of David
for other
dead, faithful.
On her face,
sweet, silly
angel face,
grimace of
brutal death.
Blood congealed
in her veins
blotches her
olive skin.
She lies naked
under cotton.
Inside her:
destroyed heart,
wrecked liver,
blocked kidneys,
erased brain,
murdered mind.
A surfeit
of vile drugs
meant to heal,
killed my friend.
As I leave,
I touch her,
saddened that
while she lived,
I never
touched her once;
not one hug.
I am male,
she was not.
What was she?
Survivor
of abuse,
a daughter,
a sister,
a good friend,
faithful to
one true God.
Boundaries
once had stood
now torn down
by her death,
which she chose
over life,
over love.
Survivor
no longer.
Demoted to
a victim.
Bermondsey Lamb 