[Original] Poetry | Obituary
Title: Obituary
Summary: A poem somewhat in response to Carol Ann Duffy's Small Female Skull.
Fandom: Original
Characters/Pairings: N/A
Genre: Angst
Rating: G
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 350
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #29!!!: The story starts when your protagonist reads his/her own obituary.
I read a poem once, about a woman
who stroked her thumb over her own skull
in a bathroom of silence and thought back
on her life. If only I could remember how
that went, but regrets fall uselessly to my
own plain tiles now that I'm dead. It should
be another morning, starting of with me staring
at me in the mirror, the reflection of the paper
in my hand, headlines screaming backwards
politics. But no, I read my obituary on the greyscale
pulp in your lap, my name blurring into stains
as you cry. Don't. But no-you don't hear me.
I wish I could tell you that things are different
once you've crossed the line. But no, they are
much the same. I spend my days watching you
like a television programme. Maybe this is Big
Brother and you will be voted off next week. In
that case, come join me and we can watch how
life goes on together. I read the poem again, when
you leave the thin book cracked open wide under
my favourite paperweight. I wish I had a skull
to cradle. I wish that it was yours, but not in a morbid
way. I miss the way my fingers would lock gently
through the grass of your hair. I'm not crying. I can't.
I am writing my own poem on the mirror, but when
you come out of the shower with your arm around
a waist that is not mine, it will be gone. The fog hides
everything, including me and my footsteps. Is it sick
that I still watch you kiss lips that are not mine? I'm
happy for you but sad for me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe
I'm not your audience but your reflection in the mirror.
Everyday is opposite day. The poetry book in the trash,
the paperweight holding down the photograph of us briefly
before you file both away in your memories. I cannot
blame you because you are still tender. This is the last
time I will try to hold your hand. I'd say farewell, but no-
Summary: A poem somewhat in response to Carol Ann Duffy's Small Female Skull.
Fandom: Original
Characters/Pairings: N/A
Genre: Angst
Rating: G
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 350
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #29!!!: The story starts when your protagonist reads his/her own obituary.
I read a poem once, about a woman
who stroked her thumb over her own skull
in a bathroom of silence and thought back
on her life. If only I could remember how
that went, but regrets fall uselessly to my
own plain tiles now that I'm dead. It should
be another morning, starting of with me staring
at me in the mirror, the reflection of the paper
in my hand, headlines screaming backwards
politics. But no, I read my obituary on the greyscale
pulp in your lap, my name blurring into stains
as you cry. Don't. But no-you don't hear me.
I wish I could tell you that things are different
once you've crossed the line. But no, they are
much the same. I spend my days watching you
like a television programme. Maybe this is Big
Brother and you will be voted off next week. In
that case, come join me and we can watch how
life goes on together. I read the poem again, when
you leave the thin book cracked open wide under
my favourite paperweight. I wish I had a skull
to cradle. I wish that it was yours, but not in a morbid
way. I miss the way my fingers would lock gently
through the grass of your hair. I'm not crying. I can't.
I am writing my own poem on the mirror, but when
you come out of the shower with your arm around
a waist that is not mine, it will be gone. The fog hides
everything, including me and my footsteps. Is it sick
that I still watch you kiss lips that are not mine? I'm
happy for you but sad for me. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe
I'm not your audience but your reflection in the mirror.
Everyday is opposite day. The poetry book in the trash,
the paperweight holding down the photograph of us briefly
before you file both away in your memories. I cannot
blame you because you are still tender. This is the last
time I will try to hold your hand. I'd say farewell, but no-