Dead sweet Rosie had eager eyes. They were blue. She died three days after childbirth. Rosie must’ve been one of those women that can’t stand the grief. Her son is still living. However, her body mustn’t have been able to stand losing its pearl.

Rosie was just a girl when she died. She married my cousin. Rosie was a treasure. Sweet sweet girl. Her mama has never been the same. They say she burned all the photo albums in the corner of her yard. The smoke could be seen from miles away. I guess Rosie died twice.

Her mama turned to God with the ferocity of a lion. She became a pest to Him. She must’ve cursed the shit out of Him. She demanded an explanation. She would pray until he’d bring her back. God would no longer sleep.

Her son is still alive. He’s a quiet boy. They say it’s because he’s got a dead mama. He also doesn’t seem to grow. I’ve seen him twice since she died. One time at six years old and then again at nine years old. He hasn’t changed. They say he doesn’t grow because his mama’s dead. It’s like his body knows and needs her touch or something. If he only could remember the three days Rosie held him tight. He doesn’t need to know that she was scared of him. Just that she held him tight.

The man has been dead inside ever since. His Rosie died in his arms. Her blue eyes closed and his pearl was gone. There was nothing he could do. He doesn’t talk much anymore. He just drinks. No one has the strength to tell him to stop. They say he tried to lift Rosie out of the casket. It took the strength of four men to hold him down. I wonder where he would’ve taken her carcass.

He’s found another woman. He doesn’t love her; he loves Rosie. She’s been gone for nine years now. He had a new baby and he wanted to name it a female version of the boy’s name. Rosie had named their boy. The woman agreed in the name of love while his whole family rose up in protest. He’s got to forget Rosie. She’s gone. 

She’s not gone. He goes to sleep with her every night.



The sky is black at night. Not waking up is morbid. These are simply matter of facts. That’s a description of your feelings. I never gave a rat’s ass. 

Is English your first language? Yes. I speak Portuguese but yearn to know French. I am only asked this because I’m an undistinguishable kind of brown. White boys don’t ever get this question because white means you’re from around.

He says it’s a damn shame that we can’t dock. I was born here; they cut it and your dad didn’t tell them to stop. Now we can’t dock. Look it up. 

Sad boy aesthetic. Get it at the gift shop. Imitations sold in Chinatown. Sad boy without a single teardrop. Look up my blog; thegrotesquedreamer dot wordPress dot com. How many followers you really got? Only one sad boy in my lane from the very start. Now the mic must drop.