Momma, I lied.
I want to die.
You can tell me I’m beautiful,
an exquisite creature,
but it doesn’t change the way I feel. I want to bleed,
to feel something; to feel the real me.
The weight on my shoulders has become cumbersome.
Even when I am lying
in bed, I am bleeding,
not physically, but emotionally. Death
now seems like a situation of creation
rather than destruction. A way to beautify
those who don’t see the beauty
in themselves. It is a way to overcome
what life has given and create
a being not based on lies
but on one’s true self. The dead
have no more blood
to shed. They have bled
and can move on to their own beautiful
afterlife. They no longer have to fear dying
or fear that they are not the epitome
of the child their parents imagined. No more need to lie
and come up with creative
ways to hide old scars. No longer need to create
new excuses for new scars that still bleed
uncontrollably. I’m sorry Momma that I lied
about my feelings. The words just bounced off my tongue beautifully.
If anyone, I am to blame.
Do not try to save me. When you find this, I will already be dead.
Just because I have died
does not mean I am gone. Create
a picture of me to carry with you. I am a syndrome.
When you least expect, I will appear. Not bloodied
like an angel. You will feel me next to you where you lay.
I’m sorry if I have been troublesome, forcing you to find my bloody
body, but I had to die. It was my time to create
my own circumstances. I love you, beautiful mother. I am sorry I lied.