I Found Inspiration Tucked Safe In My Bed

I remember the day she died.
I remember the smell, the feeling, the humming of the machines keeping her alive up until that point.
I remember her father desperately trying to clean up the blood from her face and her nose. It never ended. There was too much blood.
I remember my legs giving up on me willing me to sit down, I remember being in a room of people and finding my solitude on the bleach white tiles of the hospital floor.
It seemed unreal.
She has too much to do still, she was an only child, she shouldn't have to die so young.
Then it hits you, your not immortal.
I remember the anger, confusion, and the depression I felt afterwards.
The way I used to compulsively draw what she looked like, not in life, but in death.
Her hair; messy and dirty with bits of grass and dirt from the road, Her face; scratched and pale, Her body; I couldn't even recognize it, the huge bag of blood on her mid-drift, so dark and so final. The pureness of her legs, now spread out awaiting for someone to rid them of their crimson stains, her undeniable virgin beauty.
She left this world so pure.
It was such a dark place and I took so long to find my way out of it.

And some times I still wish I was there.