manic low
momento mori
I often find myself wondering
Whether or not my suicide will be met with discussion
Surrounding women who “were taken from us way too soon”.
Will people grieve?
Will they say how much potential i had?
Reflections of all the things i could’ve been
But was not.
Will my legacy be that of another victim of their own psyche?
When my name is whispered, will it be with compassion?
Pity?
Disgust?
What makes a woman prodigy?
How does that differ from a man?
How do nimble fingers and small frames,
Narrow shoulders and protruding ribs,
Brittle knee caps and sunken eyes
Fit into the image of greatness?
i do not belong.
An act as nobel as suicide ought to be met with some sort of admiration;
For it was a sacrifice.
i am a martyr.
Joan of arc,
Burned alive for refusing to recant her visions.
Until her dying breath
She remained adamant that the voices she heard were real.
“Divine in nature”.
As she called out to the saints for help,
She continued to burn.
“Jesus”
Her dying breath.
I am like Joan.
Her reincarnate, perhaps.
Call it what you may,
Sacrilege.
I refuse to recant my visions.
Refuse to believe that the voice in my head,
Melodically whispering sweet nothings in my ear from the time I was young,
Reminding me of my value,
My purpose,
My nothingness,
Is anything but divine intervention.
Following every accident,
Every brush with death,
He was there.
“Maybe next time”
My life companion,
Warming me with his embrace.
Jesus.
He is calling,
It is now my turn.
Much like Joan,
My brain is on fire,
I am ready to become ash.
Feel my skin melt, my hair singe.
Succumb to the delicious call of my savior.
It is time to shed my mortal frame,
Adieu, adieu.
When i die,
Publish my journals.
Let people gawk and gape,
As they witness the annihilation of a dying star in real time.
