Author Miss Parisia B.
“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 known by the variations of the entitled grief goblin, my wounds run deeper than yours- bully, and the, I can only survive with your time, energy, and sacrifice victim. The full circle they always brought me back to, 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 indeed 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 a 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 beauty. After death comes life, but those who still have the experience, 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 one away from the pain.
Now more than ever, as a woman who can 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 to achieve more life, that the three are one.