There is a gracefulness in a final breath
A glamorous look about glazed over eyes
At least, this is what I think as my body fights its last battle
As my heartbeat ceases to have a steady, strong drum
And becomes the ending piano notes of the medley of my life instead
As my stomach shrinks, shrinks, shrinks
Until it dissolves, like it was left in the acidic rain overnight, and eats itself into the morn
I have spoken to girls who have touched the edge of the cliff, who have felt the wind in their hair as they tumbled down the rabbit hole
There's a strange sense of community amongst the dead
Amongst those that have walked the land of the living as a ghost
When your hands pass through every material possession except a pen
And the only indicator you are still alive is words on a page
Because you couldn't bear to pick up the fork and eat
Every girl that has risen from the dead claims they preferred their body in a coffin, on a stage
As a warning, as a cautionary tale
We will gladly be the dying woman in your plays
Because dying women are the lovely, lusted-after possessions that men will fight for
For our names on a podium, for our last words to be etched into minds long after the credits.
//
But this isn't Shakespeare
And women don't spout poetry as they lay dying
Contrary to popular belief, this poem came from red lips and lungs full of oxygen
This poem came from a full stomach and an empty plate
Dying is not the beauty we see in film, forever young, forever graceful
The young woman, pale in her coffin, dark eyes full of innocent naivety and the longing of young love
She just looks like a wax doll before her loved ones
Dying is much more brutal than what these aged directors would lead you to believe
For I have felt the world tip and tilt beneath my fragile form
Have clung to the harsh green grass as the sky collapsed
And I will beg you not to follow in my broken footsteps and insanity
Of my cracked mind and hollow chest and feeble bones and skin cold to the touch
I have attended countless funerals, and I have learned that death pales in comparison to life
Dead woman don't hold a flame to laughter in the streets or fresh bread in a clean kitchen
Corpses are nothing beside a baby's first word, or a child's handmade birthday card, or the late starry nights of Van Gogh
He did his best work when he was at peace
So I beg of you, forever women, forever young, stay a little longer
The monster that begs you to die is a liar
Take the advice of the ghost who has met the dead and walked amongst the living
Yes, life is hard, devastating, even--
But death is not so beautiful.
