On Sundays, I always get the urge to fake my death. To run away into the sun, to leave my bones behind in my bed, in my tomb. They’ll look for me, when Monday blooms, like winter on the exhale of a child. Painting everything in its too cold to hold pinks, and bruised blues. I’ll be in a place that’s warmer. A place that doesn’t break, when I bend. I know it’s selfish to want people to mourn you. But I’ve always loved funerals more than weddings, I’ve always been attached to the idea of grief.



2. I want to celebrate the dying of light. I’d carry my heart like a sword, lodged through my chest. I want to be the bright, exploding burst of fireworks against the void. I want to be memories cracking like lightning on a prairie, seconds before a final breath. I want to be the last word on this world’s lips. I want to be everything and nothing all at once.



3. When they write about me, they will write about me as if I were nothing but a smoke and mirror trick. Someone that was too big for their bones, so they chewed their way through them. The same way a dog chews its ways through the bars of a cage. I have always been aware of my own temporariness. Have always held myself, the same way the air holds rains. That is to say, I slip right through. I fall to the ground, and become something else entirely. I have never completely owned this state of being. I have always been my own unbecoming.