Dead Living

By Juno Felecia M

To fall in love, to die, to exist, to not. What is a gift? Some days the physical mortal decaying existence that I hold onto seems pointless and lost. I do not see myself as a shimmering glimmering form of life but see the years that consume me leave their scars, like a battle I constantly fight, do not win nor do I lose. Some seem to have a portion, a spell, an added dash of wisdom. They sparkle. I look at them and they seem to be made of love and a drop of the sun. I wonder,

am I bitter? What am I? What do I feel? What is that pain that persists, that nags? That voice that says jump into the ocean, take a sip of that bathroom cleaner as you scrub the toilet, eat the soap, jump off the ledge. Fly towards the core, splatter like an overripe tomato that falls from the tabletop. Maybe then you will be seen, maybe then it would be about you. But your death is never about you, is it? It is about those you leave behind. None wonder about the dead but ask those alive if they are alright. The ones you leave behind do not miss you but are guilt-ridden. Thus, you sit by your grave and wonder, are any of the moments in your life yours?

By Juno Felecia M