If only the dead could understand grief,
the slipping from life wouldn’t be such a farce,
such a cry of longing,
such desperate grasp for belonging, still.
See, it’s about letting go,
so I let go… easily.
I want to believe that I’ll be remembered,
but am being vain,
and vanity isn’t a good thing to carry hell-wards.
They’ll dance, they’ll mourn and they’ll fuck
my memory away
as soon as my fate is sealed, as sure
as the words gouged into the marble headstone.
“Loving father, husband, son, human being—”
—they accuse me of these virtues.
‘Cause the dead have to be romanticized.
Ashes to ashes, shit to shit,
I finally belong,
this unaided darkness is a aqueous netherworld
from which I won’t rise,
I’m marked, damned, muted by ordeal insufferable;
my cries voiceless, desperate—
and my unfinishable prayers serve the mercy of no comforter,
here, this nothing-space between marble and
the divine comedy,
existential verification finds naught in this place,
here, where limbo, renders me numb to most sensations,
(that is, if my essence is supposed to feel)
but one sensation skewers me something fierce,