Two lines are enough to put us in the middle of a catalogue of losses we never get to read. "there are many times when i feel like i was died. / the first one is the day you left me." The poem sounds like the opening of a list and stops after its first item. The reader ends up where the speaker is, with something announced and everything after it withheld.
The central idea is that being abandoned feels like dying, and not just once. The speaker never says "i am sad" or "i miss you." They reach for the largest word available, and they use it in the plural: "many times." The poem doesn't say what the later deaths are, whether other losses or the same leaving returning in memory. That silence makes the first one matter more. "the day you left me" is the original wound, and everything else is counted from it.
The most striking thing is the phrase "was died." In standard English, "die" can't be passive, because dying is something you do, not something done to you. Whether the phrasing is deliberate or simply the speaker's natural voice, it changes the meaning. Passive grammar needs an agent, someone who did the deed, and the second line supplies one at once: "you." So the strange verb quietly assigns responsibility before the poem names the person. "I died" would be a statement of fact. "I was died" says that death happened to the speaker, that they were acted upon and had no say. It's also oddly intimate. The grammar has no polish, and it sounds like someone finding words for a feeling no ready-made phrase fits.
The hedge "feel like" is worth noticing too. The speaker doesn't claim to have died, only to feel as though they did. Yet the clumsy, powerful verb that follows overwhelms the hedge. The sentence begins carefully and ends in something raw.
The sound of the first line backs this up. The long *i* returns again and again: "times," "i," "like," "i," "died." It works almost like a drone, and the speaker's own pronoun is caught in it, repeated twice and ending up beside "died." The pronoun is also lowercase, as is every word in the poem. There is no capital "I" standing upright, only a small letter, which suits a speaker who feels diminished.
The rhythm shrinks as well. The first line runs to about twelve syllables and sprawls. The second has nine, every one a single-syllable word: "the first one is the day you left me." Its beat is plain and nearly regular, like a short, steady statement of fact, and it ends on the soft word "me." The last thing we hear is the speaker, the person left behind. Nothing rhymes, so there is no chime to round things off and no tidy click of closure.
Punctuation delivers the same message. The first line ends with a full stop, but the second has none. The statement is complete while the thought isn't, which matches the idea of grief that has no clear ending.
The tenses matter too. The leaving happened in the past ("left"), but the day is described in the present: "the first one *is* the day." The speaker hasn't moved on from it, and in their telling it hasn't finished happening.
Then there are the small framing details. The title is three asterisks, the usual sign of an untitled poem, so the loss has no name to go with it. The signature, "kin," is a word for family and the people bound to us, and it sits oddly above a poem about someone walking away. That may be coincidence, but a reader can't help hearing the irony.
The poem is significant because it does so much with so little. It gives no name, no setting, no explanation, and the unspecified "you" lets anyone step into the gap. Its most unusual feature, the faltering grammar, is also its most expressive. In two short lines it shows that grief doesn't need decoration, only the right word in the wrong form.