I was 19. She was 22. We met in a group therapy session right after my first breakdown.

Nights like these, ice cold nights, are the kind of nights I think about her. Only broad I ever told I love you and really meant it.

She had long crimson hair with dark streaks in it; sure it was a dye job but it always smelled fresh. Her clothes seemed to flow over her soft, pale skin. She was tall and delicate with thin lips that would creep into small half-smile when I would do something funny.

She was literally crazy and I was too young to recognize danger, even if it would beat the shit out of me during a manic snap.

I was tired of the fighting and the cops and madness so it ended horribly. I didn’t find out ‘til after she smashed a glass across my head that she’d been sleeping around for months.

I found out a few years back that she was killed by some guy she was seeing in Florida.

I never told anyone that last part of the story, but it’s cold tonight and my bones are getting kind of achy.

Rest in piece, lily.