“How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one’s name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!”
There’s a hollowness in your words that makes my chest feel like a gaping black hole.
They are full of impossibilities, etched with the fear of oblivion. Sucking in the electric emotions and flinging them into the unfathomable black abyss.
They say they found your work after you died. All those brilliant poetries children would one day loath as they were taught to interpret them in school, their unrefined thoughts conjuring a vague image of you as a nineteenth-century emo.
They say that’s when you began a new life, a new legend. Breathing through your words, thriving on the sensations we felt when we read them, as yours remained forgotten whispers in the dust.
A life after death.
But you never wanted to be somebody, did you? Because you were already dead.
You felt dead, like you lived inside the black hole in my chest.
You had always felt the color flaking off your soul as it grew dormant and stale, the color that wasn’t dulled with age, but with loneliness.
Did you daydream about your funeral? Then grow angry because you were still stuck here, where no one could see you. You didn’t want them to see you, no.
But, sometimes. Only sometimes,
As you sat near the windowsill, looking at the rose that would be your muse, the delicate teacup in your dry fingers cracked and you couldn’t breathe because you were tired of everybody not seeing you—everybody unseeing you and you wanted to yell I’M HERE GODDAMNIT, I’M ALIVE.
Would you be glad, knowing that they see you now?
Perhaps you would still be unhappy, as you disintegrate under the surface of the earth.
You are simply oblivious.
Because you knew. You always knew, what it was like to be dead.
It’s like you lived the second you died.
Or did you die the second you started living?
I hope you know now,
For someone who never seemed to have the affinity for life,
You made a lot of us feel alive.