Tell me, what does it mean to die? to be dead?
At what point can I mourn?
For all those people whose hearts have not stopped But who have, nonetheless, ceased to exist.
“She is dead to me” they say.
But it is not for her body that they grieve
The intangible and ephemeral self
Who is now alive only in the memories she created
For how long can a heartbeat be withheld For it to sufficiently be called a death? Must my heart stop at all?
Or can it simply beat anew?
The skin with which I touch and feel has all died and fallen
And then grown again and replaced itself
The thoughts with which I examine the world have all been forgotten
And then relearned once more.
I have died a thousand time
And have resurrected with each one
Does the child who once shared my name still exist?
Through my name, my eyes, my smile.
Is she eternally preserved in her product?
Does the oak tree retain the acorn from which it sprouted? Or did she die that same night that I was born? Perhaps even long before then.
Did she cling to my existence as I slowly came to be
Or she became nothing Nothing but a disillusioned memory
Of a girl who know pretends to exist
A stain on the pages of a story
The story of the abstracted “me”
I am haunted by a past that wasn’t mine
By the ghost of only a half-person
Who would never know their power
her demolition my foundation.
and when, finally, my heart beats its last beat, my absence shall make room for new life
When the ashes of man are left behind, we will call that our demise
But when, from those ashes, there blooms a strong oak tree
Nourished by our enriching decomposition
Can we call that death? Can we call that life?
Or really, is there any difference?
blakekathryn
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janainaart
gummygunk
vaporwave
izzy806
ellievsbear
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