Return to You

You'd think that I'd be smart enough to stay away. Just stop thinking about it, back down, and totally avoid insane ideas like what crossed my mind. Guess what?

I didn't.

I didn't. That's what got me into the same mess eight years ago-letting one thought in, getting curious, allowing another to take its place, then another, and another, and another until I wasn't just thinking about it: I was talking about it. Conversing with others about it. Actually putting forth the effort, going through the trouble and the motions of finding other people to talk with on the matter. I bet I don't even have to tell you the next part, do I? You must know it by now, have the awful assumption creeping up in the back of you mind, overshadowing the rest of your questions and comments, memories and emotions. Don't worry, I won't make you ask. That would be too cruel, too horrible, too downright, over-the-top and through the woods mean. Since I already carry the reputation of being a heart hammering, soul slicing, conceited crackerjack of a business bitch, I'll do your dirty work for you. I'm used to it, honey. It only took me oh, around all the years I've been alive to do that, so of course I'll be the bad boy in public. Private is for slitting my wrists to cope with it all. So you wanna know my secret? Promise not to tell?

I'm dying.

Know what else?

That's what I wanna do.

That's right, I've made up my mind, babe, and there's nothing you can do about it. Don't try to convince me otherwise, to moan and plead with me to sit and think over what I'm saying because I'm not. I won't. I not going to, and you're just going to have to deal with that. Does that make you sad? Upset? Feel terrible and depressed? Yeah, that's the norm. It's what I expected from start to finish-you to worry your pretty little head over me, stay up at night, probably dream up something more suicidal than what I concocted as you stand by and watch. And watch. And just helplessly watch what I'm doing, what becomes of me, how I wither away into dust and ashes, my body crumbling a bit more each time you hold my hand, wrap your arms around me, try to kiss my cheek as light as possible so my skin won't bruise, so the bones beneath the sallow skin don't up and break.

Aren't I a horrible person for doing that? Don't you just want to grab my bony shoulders and shake me until my teeth rattle, 'til what little brain cells I have left in my head fall from my skull and bust apart like a grand chandelier smashing against marble tiles? Huh? Aren't you mad enough at me yet? Don't you want to hurt me, hurt me some more? Well, do ya? Do ya?

No, you won't do that. I know you won't. Even though I have it coming, even though I deserve to get put out of my misery, you won't strike me. You won't hit the back of my head, slap my hand, pull my hair, or give me so much as a tiny swat on the leg. Why won't you, though? I see the anger in your eyes, the pain of looking at a loved one suffering, the mixed feelings of hatred and fright coming at you from every angle, careening down your highway, ready to crash into your sight like an unavoidable head-on collision. What is it, Doll Face? What's keeping you from unleashing that fatal fury of chaos on me? What's holding you back?

The answer never dawns on me while I'm alive. I have to come down off my lofty cloud, get grounded, and haunt my funeral to get a clue. That's when I see you, only you, smiling the smile I used to treasure and cherish, smiling in such a soft and simple manner that you almost captivate me with your near ethereal stance. Almost, though, almost. If it wasn't for the message engraved on my tombstone, I could have played the watching game, hovering around you like a good little guardian angel should, finally being in death to you what you always were to me in life. But it's not your features I'm watching now. I barely notice the quiver in your upper lip, the soft sniffles from your nose, the transparent track of a tear trickling over flesh paler than the flesh of my corpse. Rather, my attention is fixed on your hand, slender fingers gliding across the gray slab beneath them, caressing the stone as if that were me there instead. In a strange way, I really was there.

And I'm there now.

I'm there now, wearing a face that matches yours, assuming a stance mirroring your own. While watering eyes pour over the inscription of the grave-my grave-I realize something in death that had never crossed my mind in life:

I'll never forget

Your loving kiss,

eternal bliss

I'll surely miss.

I was loved by you.

I was loved by you, and I'll always be loved by you.

And if I didn't harbor so much animosity towards myself, than I would have been capable of returning that love to you.