Death You Spite Me

When I was a child, I feared you.
When I embraced God, I shunned you.
When I ached, I hated you.
When I matured, I accepted you.

But now I just spit in your face.

The smoke invigorates me as I burn your pedestal to the ground. There’s nothing special about you- nothing particularly mystic, or meta, or superlative. You’re nothing but a hateful little brat always kicking dirt in the yard to agitate the teachers. You have no peers, because nobody respects you. You have no associates, no comrades, no minions, no henchmen, no paramours, no pleasure.

That’s right. I said it.
Your work is all consuming and there’s no pleasure in it.
The irony- YOU sentenced to a fate worse than death.

And me without any emotional capacity to revel in it.

So who are you going to take next huh? My mom was just at a funeral the other day that cut her to the core! I was empathic towards her, but there was a coldness in my heart too, because I have nothing left to feel when your presence is near.

So, like I said, who’s next? What so called lesson are you going to teach me? Which hero of mine are you gonna glean just for the psychotic thrill of plunging the entirety of your wicked blade into the depths of my heart?

Ooh and what will the timing be like? Because you only drop bombs during peace time you perverted prick. Will you wait until I book my first tour? Or maybe when the movie script I’ve been shopping around gets picked up. Or perhaps once I’ve harvested the nerve to consider wedding bells again.

Ooooo you know what? Next year is my birthday, Star Wars Celebration, and the birth of my third niece! You’ve got options you spiteful, worm infested, son of a-
[my mother really doesn’t like that word].

I know you. You’re the guy who goes to the beach,
not for the waves or sand castles,
but just to stand in the light of others,
and temporarily overwrite their world in shadow.

Now I’m not confused on why I’m so in love with playing the piano! It’s my one shot at injecting healing notes into the backbeat of your discord. A platform with no words required to quiet abiding fires- with my arms, I can only hug one person at a time. But with these keys, I don’t even have to see the people to wrap them in my embrace.

I’m special.
Not you.
I see that now.

I used to always mourn my lack of conventional upbringing- the near total absence of memories and experiences pretty much all folks my age have in common. The hushed requirements to be socially relevant… in many instances, the requirements to even really be considered black. This homeschooled, nerd, geek, not-quite-churchy Jesus kid with a deep philosophical bent and a gift for children and stages meets neither of those requirements.

and it used to tear me up inside,
because constantly living on the outside,
is mind numbingly ingratiating.

But as of late, I don’t think that way anymore. I see it as protection. Far less targets on my chest for you to aim at. You can’t hurt me as quickly… or as easily… just very, very deeply.

When you took Nesha from me, it felt like my heart got ripped out, and that maybe God liked me a smidgen less than all the others. It was a full year before I could perform the poem I wrote to commemorate her without collapsing¬† in tears afterwards. Do you know what’s that like?? To be a poet is to be a god-¬†someone was dead and I brought them back to life!

… only to slowly walk her back to her casket once the final word is done.
… only to be reminded that true Godhood is a party of One.

When you took Carrie from me, I thought the stain of sorrow would leave its marks on me for life,
magma tears cried daily,
never healing,
only eroding slowly,
until there simply wasn’t any bit of me left.

And then I, mercifully, learned that wasn’t the case. Was braced for several more years before having to again negotiate that kind of pain.

But nope, here you are just two years later. Taking away another iconic creator who ironically directly co-created exactly who I am and aspire to be. I almost crumbled to my knees when I found out. Sat, overwhelmed, for two hours and did not speak.

I’m cold.
But I’m over you.
You’re not special.
There’s nothing deeper here you sick, sadistic, bastard.

And I hope, on the day you come for me, I get the Palpatine satisfaction of striking back as my final anthem, wink and a smile as I leave the mattress, spirit dancin, when your scythe clatters as one of your bones shatter.

You are the curse, but I am the omen.

No matter how much you spite me,

I’ll still go right along livin.


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