I will never forget the day a 10-year-old told me you were dead. There was no soliloquy added to better aid the delivery, just,
He knew more than I did that day. Therefore I would spend months crying about broken jewelry, over relating to yogi personality types, and dreading my mortality as though it were destined for tomorrow. Dreading my existence as though it were less fulfilled.
“Death lies to you, it forgives the unforgivable and paints past moments with heaps of color that were once grey”
I’ve traveled to every edge and fucked every victim type in the books. Men with infantile natures, you know the variations: the entitled grief goblin, the my wounds run deeper than yours, and the I can only survive with your time, energy and sacrifice victim. Full circle they always brought me back, cowering to their knees, marshaling for my restitution. But if anything, I wanted to be there begging for my life, attenuating without love, championing rejection with alacrity.
My strong penchant for finding someone to loose wouldn’t tamp. A craving to love someone to mourn, an opportunity to enjoy life and succumb to the pain of death; to resurrect.
Before her passing I hadn’t truly known what it meant to wither. My life was tragically met with solely new life and ascension.
A wile woman, wishing death upon the living.
The intentions of my cravings were always pure, for because of my nutritive relationship with pleasant, I rejected any pain or negative reality that settled upon my lap. In time, the beautiful rhythm of tragedy, the one that once evaded me, draped its scales around me as to tighten at any moment.
Thanksgiving Night. I wonder if you had suffered the same reality as me, not victim to loss but draped in its nigh, until *squeeze*, death wages a war of attrition and this time it’s on you.
But it isn’t true what they say about death, it isn’t a moment that passes. Death is felt forever, lives on forever, and dies over and over again. Death lies to you, it forgives the unforgivable and paints past moments with heaps of color that were once grey; it could be said it reveals the truth, the beauty. After death comes life, but those who still have life, well something in them dies too.
Since her passing all I can see is death, I see it in her son, my father, who lost his mother. I wear it on the pendant I found at the bottom of her jewelry bag, in the old wooden dresser, kicked to the corner right before you exit the room.
Craving pain doesn’t remedy the dearth of joy.
Requesting joy can’t hoist away the pain.
Now more than ever, as a woman who has the ability to usher in life, I feel it my responsibility to let live, what calls to live, and put to death what must die. To know that life needs death in order to have life, that the three are one.
Miss Parisia B.