The Truth Embarks a New Beginning

"Romanticize"

I used to romanticize death.
Well, to put it in a concise and perhaps poetic way,
I used to think of death as a tall women in red heels and a bold-colored lip.
I would imagine she'd take me in her arms, pin me up against the wall, and take my last breath with a kiss.
Then I'd watch her walk off with my body in her arms.
I'd hear her heels hit the floor like church bells on Christmas morning, it sounded perfect.
But I didn't just romanticize dying.
I romanticized what came after.
When I thought of death I never pictured an afterlife.
I never saw the gates of hell fuming with the stench of past mistakes.
I never saw a red demon with tarred fingernails and a tan.
I never saw a devil.
And when I thought of heaven, I never truly pictured it.
I never saw God as a person or an almighty being.
And even if God were real, I'd imagine she was a woman who's definition of love began with an acceptance for all.
I mean, if God's campaign was all about loving thy neighbor then why on earth would she draw the line at sexuality or religion.
So, when thinking of death I never imagined an afterlife.
Instead I would dwell on the idea of revenge.
How despite being gone I would play mind games with the living.
Perhaps write a memoir dedicated to enrich the idea of fame despite having departed the realm of living.
I'd imagine I'd take a new spin on Poe's biography.
Make it my own.
You see, when I was about fourteen and depressed, I thought of killing myself.
I didn't want to do it because I wanted to die, but rather because I felt hopeless.
I wanted death to pin me and take me away.
I wanted to be remembered.
So, I wrote a book.
I filled the pages with stories that could make the receiver's stand on the edges of their seats.
The pages were filled with beautiful notes on how some people fucked up my life.
I dotted the i's with a precise description on how a half eaten apple in my hoodie during lunch was a metaphor for how small and insecure I would feel.
I dipped my pen in the rivers of every time I was touched by someone of the male species without having granted them permission.
I drew lines of tiny comments that were made about my big body,
And I rhymed with every time someone said it was just a prank.
But that wasn't enough.
I would write my story every chance I could,
Because at the end of the day, writing was all I could do.
I had filled over four hundred written pages by the end of three weeks.
I had asked a friend to pass it around the school the following Monday.
I didn't plan on sticking around for that.
But the Friday before, my date with death was called off.
I was considered a risk to myself.
For months I tried convincing the woman who birthed me that I wrote the story for a school project.
Conveniently, that same year the eighth grade class needed to write a novella by the end of the term.
It was so easy to convince her.
Too easy.
That's when I learned that I never thought about death.
I only thought about what came after.
So when Easter hit, and I mean, really hit, I should have seen the red heels drag me out of the car.
But I didn't.
Instead, through the broken glass, her lips mouthed that it wasn't my time yet.
You see, I romanticized death.
Because no living person can lie peacefully without a care in the world.
Death is an untouched idea.
Untucked and sealed in a box beneath a cupboard of broken dreams.
And the idea of touching a concept no living being has ever seen, was daunting.
But now I've learned that she's worth the wait.
Because I know that when she comes, she'll greet me like an old friend.
And she'll kiss me like I'm worth remembering.
I'm worth remembering.