Monday, April 6

Really? (poem six)

It's a shit life.

My grandmother is dying. My father is a coward. My best friend hates me.

I am sad. I am angry. I am hurt. I am confused. I am unable to deal with this anymore.

Dear God, if you exist, just take me down in one fell swoop, rather than this prolonged agony, thanks.

I know I am being purposefully melodramatic. I know it seems malicious and callous. But the only way that I can deal with my problems is by writing and I only know how to write satire.

When I die
(which, if there is a divine being perched in the clouds waiting to answer my prayers, may well be very soon)
I'd like you to harvest my internal organs
and give it to those more deserving.
It's right here in writing, so don't you dare do otherwise.
Also, you bitches better not embalm me.
I'll have none of that mummification bullshit.
Take the heart and the brains and whatever else you can use
and bury me in the ground straight away.
I don't want a coffin.
I don't want to be dressed in some frilly outfit.
Let me rest in my froggy pajamas.
Put me under some needy tree,
that'll suck life from my fleshy bits.
Let me be of some use to the Earth.

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