i remember. goosebumps down my skin. neon colours, and itchy wool sweaters. all that wonderful seventh grade fashion. and i was only twelve years old, but i remember just being really fucking sad.
so i’d read the obituaries. every tuesday, and thursday. memorize these strangers’ names, and cut out their life stories. i think i still have them in lying around today.
i remember the smell of kindling. remember pressing my hands right up to the flame, but the rest of my body still couldn’t stop shivering…
and i’d trace their legacies. out of sheer pity. i’d do my best; i’d complete their dying wishes, because i was twelve. and naive. and i wanted to save everybody.
it’s been almost three years now, since i’ve wondered if anyone would read my obituary. if my mom would ever find the will i wrote on my shitty old computer. because i think it’s still out there, held together with scotch tape and superglue.
but i don’t want to go looking for old demons. i don’t want to remember; living life in third person. paperthin dissociation, and a messy bedroom.
i don’t want to go to your funeral. don’t want to grieve a stranger. because it’s dusty, and cold. because i have a whole life ahead of me. i have places to be, i have things to do.
because it’s not my job to save you.