On a Bed of Roses, Buried in Satin

She would say things like, “I have to die
before you because I couldn’t continue
without you,” completely disregarding how
much I loved her, as if I would hold the
preposterous amount of vigor to outlast her,
even though the statistics are against me—
and I would merely agree with her—but
she loved Taylor Swift to the point of
romanticizing the lines, “If I die young,
bury me in satin, lay me down in a bed of roses,”
somehow and perhaps wishing she would die
young just to be buried in such a way, and
to make sure she doesn’t have to live
without me if I go first, but—but she
died first...

she didn’t die a physical death, or an
emotional death, or a death that would warrant
burial, but she committed metaphysical suicide,
leaping off the cliff into an unknown she
ached to know, sheltered her whole life
and wanting secular satisfaction—unable to
attain it with me—a “leap of faith” if you
want to call it that...

she justified it the only way she knew how—a
narrative she heard since birth—a narrative she
witnessed first hand growing up—a narrative 
she internalized and wanted so much to be a
part of, somehow feeling apart from her family
in that respect, seeking anything to fan the flames
to a bonfire that would rival the furnace flames
of Radshach, Meshach, and Abednego, fanning
into existence a fire so large that the sun would
be hard pressed to match its heat with its fusion,
fanning a fire that would kill immediately if one
ventured to close like Icarus to the sun—
she justified it... using... me...

I am not exempt from terrible thing which
I have done, but my anger isn’t the whole story—
and if she had only communicated with me,
pushed to understand the unrighteous fire
before her in me, then maybe she wouldn’t
have made the leap, but speculation can take
me only so far, and assuming makes an ass
out of me—but something could have been
done to prevent this!—right? am I wrong?

whether I’m wrong or not doesn’t matter
because she’s gone! she died before my eyes,
as she performed her metaphysical suicide
in front of me—she wrapped herself up tight
in a cocoon like a caterpillar, hoping to emerge
as a butterfly, but the metamorphosis became
possessed and followed a demonic transformation
that I was powerless to arrest—and she threw
herself from the highest heights like an ungodly
Jesus throwing himself into the arms of angels
waiting to catch him, but there were no angels
for her descent, and she fell with terminal
velocity until she struck the pavement like
gelatinous goo that spread across the sidewalk—
she’s unrecognizable now, and there’s no
way for her to return—and so I take her
to a river where a boat filled with roses waits,
and I wrap up her remains in the satins of
royalty—reds and purples—and cast her off
to sea with a farewell flaming arrow to set
her pyre ablaze and send her off to God—

God, watch her now—do not stop her entry
because of this suicide, and grant her peace
in spite of her violent death—welcome her
back with your loving arms as a father
welcoming a prodigal daughter back from
worldly delights—set a feast for her when she
returns, and celebrate that she came back
as I know only you can—and let this be my
sorrowful goodbye—let this song break the
hearts of the gods in the sky, and may it
bend Hades’s ear to my plight, and may it
rise to you as incense, pleasing and fragrant
in your nose—and please bring me peace
that only you can bring!—

because she got one thing right: I can live
beyond her after she died because of my
proclivity to survival, a preposterous need
to live and continue living that overcomes
my immense desire to give up and lay
down beside her and commit the same
ritualistic suicide to let the nightmare end.

 

Tags: Sad, Depressing, Pain, Dark,