GRIEF Poem: Romania, by James Redfern

I once had a girl
and her name was Romania.
I loved her, I did,
but she left on Tuesday.

We had us some fun
and drank us some beers,
but then she stole all my photos
and emptied out all of her drawers.

Gone is my love
and gone is her junk;
I just shot the last gram
she left in my trunk.

Alone, by the phone,
I call out her name,
with face soaked with tears
and beers of the same.

She threatened strange suicides
wailing pink pills and bloodstains.
The joke was on everyone
when she hacked up her veins.

I loved her, I did,
and I called her the flower.
I’d give up all of time
just to see her this hour.

But death is death
when the blood is spilt:
The love drains out
and the flower, she wilts.

Her mother got pissed
and called up a posse;
they came looking’ for me
with an eight-by-ten glossy.

When they broke down my door,
I was waiting with lead
—shot her once in the gut,
and again in the head