Uninvited, unintentional words.
Complex thoughts.
Fragmented feelings.
Told you so
My problem isn’t
not thinking before I speak.
I do.
The thought is there, somewhere.
I hear it—
but it’s a whisper,
stifled by all the others.
Still, it’s there.
Hinting.
Suggesting.
Battling to be heard,
to be considered.
And I ignore it.
Then—
when I’ve opened my mouth
and the words are out—
I hear that thought
above all others.
Now it’s screaming:
“I told you so!”
– Dee
Songs I didn’t pick
Try telling someone who’s got people who love them.
Try telling someone who’s got someone—anyone.
Try telling them you’ve written a will.
Try telling them the biggest reason is spite.
That the second biggest is the quality of your pets’ life.
That you’ve picked songs for your funeral, just in case.
Just in case those who claim to be someone,
who claim to be anyone who love you,
pick for you.
That you imagine your dead body at the top of the crematorium.
Your dead ears inside that coffin,
listening to songs you didn’t pick.
Ones that don’t resonate one bit.
Try telling the people left who love you
that you’ve put it all into words.
Try expecting a sorrowful gaze.
Try knowing “expecting” is too strong a word
for an experience you’ve never learned.
Try hoping for something more.
Subconsciously.
Matter-of-factly delivering an envelope
to an aunty who’s so close to the devil
it feels risky.
Try printing multiple copies.
Including page numbers, just in case.
Try being 36.
No kids.
No one, it feels, who loves you more than a bit.
More than a good deed.
Or an act of obligation.
Scared to death.
Scared of death.
Wishing for death.
Preparing for death.
So you know it’s safe if ever you choose
to take your last breath.
Or if choice is removed.
If you’re dead with no one to walk in your shoes.
No one to carry a torch.
No one to know the truth.
No one to believe the truth.
That’s it.
The end.
End of a story not even half lived.
Not even a bit.
Just survival against the fittest.
Survival among the fittys.
Surviving all the critics.
The snitches.
The bitches.
Imagine your normality being writing your will alone.
Through day.
Through night.
At home.
Alone.
Imagine it.
Imagine having no one to desirably entrust
with anything you own.
Imagine the pointlessness
of maintaining your home.
Imagine.
’Cause I can’t.
I did it for my pets.
Needed them to have a life far removed from my family.
Needed them to live a life not scared.
To have the luxury of not flinching,
being grateful if spared.
I’m glad I’ve done it.
Just wish they acknowledged the seriousness,
the morbidness.
Don’t get me wrong.
i haven’t broadcast it.
not wilfully.
Not a bit.
- Dee