i’ll have a grave.
i’ll make it for myself.
people will read my journals one day and whim and say ‘she was contemplating death at 17. she was contemplating everything.
‘she even considering becoming.’
my gravestone - what must it say?
an apology? a thank you?
a retraction?
‘poet’ it will say, with heavy letters for the heavy poems i write. under it, will be ‘philosopher’ - the word used by unreal uncreative people for the artists that feel things.
‘only artists produce for each other a world that is fit to live in’ i’ll say that. in my best man speech and in my letter sign offs and in my diary and on my hands and on my hips and in my blue blue blue somber hair.
i’ll have a grave. burn my corpse, but i’ll have a grave. it’ll be empty. it’s not symbolic. it’s not a semiotic. it’s not dialectical. it’s just empty. forgive me for this, there’s poems i never showed you.
forgive, me. forgive me. for.give.me. f.o.r.giveme.
the end.
Comments