I will write an elegy to myself. A memorializing of the person I used to be.
I will write an ode to my past life. In fire.
And I will pay my respects to her. As she has passed. I am no longer she, not that one. Though not exactly the same, not altogether different. Either.
What if my family of origin
forced me into these roles –
needed me to provide value as their –
mom, dad, manager, spouse, scapegoat, savior, peer counselor, personal librarian, mediator, exorcist, and grave digger?
What if I died when I was 25?
That night I survived
was actually the night
I/she died.
We were reassured
I would make it,
all right.
What year is it?
How many fingers?
Do you know of anyone who had a reason to hurt you?
Describe the person who did this to you.
Describe how you did not run,
nor fight back,
but softly cried, curled
inward, and died.
Whose hand is this?
The same one I was born with?
Who was it who died that night?
Who was it who survived?
Who is it now who writes down
how she died
and lived to tell.
Who is it who claims disability?
Whose body is it
who is claimed?
Who surrenders?
Who suffers?
Is the body a who?
Is the gut brain
a mind
of its own?
Is that the one who
survived?
And the head mind
the one who died?
And how could neither reach
the third brain – the heart mind?
Diffuse axonal injury.
Axonal shearing,
stretching.
Missed connections.
Does plasticity
find relevance
in my dead to life
true crime
story?
Who is this now
who says
don’t kill your former
self?
She was doing the best she
could
with the weapons and ammo
she had at the time,
albeit trained on herself.
In my own mirrored crosshairs.
Who says it’s time now
to quit rejecting
that former life
never saw the light
never salvaged
but decimated
obliterated
and insurrectioned
myself
only after much debate.
And enough of these
questions
Who is it who asks so
many questions
to feel alive
But she deserves
elegies
odes
eulogies
prose
in fire
You were born
I was, she was
the first
but that’s not when it started
she was always being born
and always dying
every moment
expiring on each out breath
she was always choking on the
exhale
longing for love
unable to let go
fears of never taking another breath
This girl
she was survivor
included when she died
she survived every hit
every slander
every laceration
every cosmetic orthodontic procedure
orchestrated by and for That She
waiting in the wings
cranking up the volume
By Proxy
this one
she survived
every rape
every nightmare
every asthma attack
every mysterious childhood
virus that turned up purple
spots on her legs
and a month in a wheelchair
survived every psych eval
and iq test
survived every attempted
suffocation, every
mom based strangulation
this one never quit
crying
never quit gasping
for air
hyper ventilating
for help
from someone outside
who could see the
soul murder and the choking
for what it was
survived the bike accidents
and each time blacking out in church at the catholic
school
when it faded to black
closing in on dots in her
visual field
like film effects
with cotton filling ears
turning in
falling down
cracking head on wooden
church bench
blood pooled at lower legs
needed to leave the body
of that girl
and be carried to the nurse’s
room
listening to the concerned
school staff wondering why
her mom so mad
and must be really taking
her time to get there
doesn’t she care that her
daughter fainted
again
survived all the blood tests
and social work home
visits
and discomfort at questions
about
describe your family
and how are things at home
she survived without internet
taping songs off the radio
and feeling free when
she got a phone
in her room
so she could call someone
up
and say she was real
she survived trying to shake
off and discard virginity
looking for evidence and proof
of being real
survived a late coming
period and blood that
made her wait
made her doubt she would
ever be real
she was real
even before she died
though that death
was an anti climax
of reality
no other proof necessary
she was crushing up
ritalin and searching for a
cigarette
under the venue lights
across from the big gothic
church
in the neighborhood that
still held Black owned
businesses
before she died
she left her wallet inside
bled on the sidewalk
was feeling buzzed up
and high and carefree
she was shocked into
coming back to her body
when she died
she dated to get love
she needed
and to get proof she was
real
she used their cars, their
bar tabs, their weed
to escape what she knew
was going to kill her
and that’s not even how she died
she was made up
and blonded
with contact lenses
white skin with a tan
and mascara on blue eyes
booty shorts and tank tops
exposing skin
she was high s.a.t. score
ambitious to travel
and learn how to be
real
first in the family to
college
and looking up the ladder
feeling real proud at each step
up
til she died in the middle
and laid down
the life of a
dreamer
she hated herself
doubted herself
was grandiose about herself
wanted to fuck herself
cause those men weren’t
doing her justice
she was escaping herself
she was surviving by self
destruction
that tower tarot card
that high priestess
hermit
she died n a new
moon solar eclipse
to induce a crisis
she hid her death
valiantly
doing her best
to try and salvage
what passed for love
mom could give
no more savior american
middle class dream
complex
no more good body
no attraction
no more kissing her best
friend as soon as she walked
in the bar
and getting fingered on the
girl’s lap she just met
at karaoke
while giving up sex for coke
and escapes in men’s cars
no more personality
no more ambitions
nor womanhood
nor whiteness
nor when her true monvalley
aunt told her advice
you are good looking,
you’re smart, educated
and you can get whatever
you want from people
all you can think of now
was aunt’s mom
jumping off the homestead
high level bridge
this bridge spans railroad
tracks
and toxic industry
not a river
you heard the story she told
your 16 year old aunt
back in time
she put on lipstick, high heels
said she was going out to
meet
you rejected mon valley
like you rejected the south hills
and parkway west
like you rejected butler county and washington
and catholicism
and working lowermiddle class values
and full time work career
and heterosexuality
you also rejected
hygiene, sex, parties, physical activity,
entertainment, parents, and siblings, anyone
related to crafton carnegie
all the old life casings
and shell fragments
elegy for that dead girl
who woke up in a new life
you didn’t have to o.d.
and get revived with narcan
in the body bag
like your cousin
you didn’t hang from the
ceiling so your family
would find you
like your uncle
you didn’t hide in dementia,
denial, delusions,
and your own mind’s walls
like your femme ancestors
tradition teachers
you didn’t jump
who killed you
violence
misogyny
white guilt
catholic shame
child abuse
mixed off label use pills
the bartender
your date
the ems first responder
the nurse who reluctantly gave
pain reliever
you asked for
shows up from hospital bill $3.95
for the ibuprofen tablet she gave you
your first intergenerational
imaginative body memory
of incest
baby trauma
screaming with a pillow over your face
your great grandmother’s depression era dentist who
ended it with too much
ether
or did she just not want to come back to
your pcp who told you
you’d be on antidepressants
the rest of your life
what killed you
mercifully
was
the Rest of your Life