This is the entrance to my funeral,
and I’m not here.
This is where people moan their losses,
cry their hurting hearts out, live.
This is where my body lies down dead, breathless, defenseless.
This is where I imagined I would die, resigned.
These are the people I knew would cry for me.
This is all what people told me it should be
Crying, moaning, hurting, reaching, feeling, lying.
Because I died in different circumstances, in different places,
in different people, in different hearts,
in different hurts.
That’s why I’m not here, because they thought me dead,
and I’m alive.
Archives: Spring 2010.