leftover.

i don’t hate death for what it is; the release of air from its tides, its prison, ultimate freedom and peace and rest. i hate it for leaving me alone to face the consequences.

the sun beat down on the asphalt, pounding it mercilessly and creating illusions in front of our eyes.
mirages.
i expect sand dunes and horsemen to appear at any moment. we’ll die out here, shrivel and be picked clean by the scavengers.
my fingers cling to each other, it’s an adhesive heat, my palms are damp and i clasp them together. my shirt adheres to my ribs. i feel as though i’m being juiced.
we walk in, sit in the church, towering and old and beautiful.
profane. i do not belong here. huge stained glass windows cast oceans on the carpet, the sea swelling and receding in the heat. i dip my hand into the blue tide, i can feel my fingers moisten. i can taste the salt on my lips. i feel sea sick.
i look all around me. octagenarians all wearing floral print dresses, holding hands, crying, shoved into metal folding chairs.
he was a good man, they all proclaim.
you should be proud, he was a good man.
i want to stand up and announce that they are all greivously misinformed.
he was not a good man.
he was not a man.
i decide to let it go in the name of respect and propriety and all that shit.
someone mumbles some words, people cry, someone sings, people cry, they wheel him out, everyone cries, everyone but me. i draw tears on my cheeks with my ever beading persperation and hope that no one asks.
they all herd into the basement to eat jello salad and meatloaf on paper plates and reminisce. they will fuel their greif with caloric intake. this is something i have never understood. i need a cigarette. something to get the taste of resentment out of my mouth.
a little girl knocks over the pitcher of lemonade.
she cries.
i don’t hate death for taking those around me.
i hate it for never picking me.

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