If only everyone could successfully fake their own death,
just like Sherlock does in “The Reichenbach Fall,”
we wouldn’t have to worry about dying.
The pavement would be splattered with fake Halloween blood,
& your tears would mirror my tears of poorly-timed laughter.
If only I hadn’t watched Requiem for a Dream—
the seedy drug underbelly filling my mind—
if only I hadn’t thought I could subject myself to dark narratives,
but my head whispered to me, “You can handle it.
You’re already full of dark thoughts, go for it.”
Now, I press my head against to metal of my lofted bed & sob.
I’m still childish in freshly grown adult skin,
& need to find ways to put on my adult suit & dress slacks.
My favorite kinds of characters have always suffered:
Sherlock, Jude St. Francis—
That’s why I’m drawn to Sherlock, to Jude.
They pretend to be removed from their emotions,
from their humanity,
but they are actually becoming more human every day,
thanks to John & to Willem.
I miss you, my friends.
Know that I am well
& trying my best to stay afloat in this new sea.
I wish you weren’t gone.
Let’s have dinner sometime.
Please note: This is an old poem from college. It doesn’t reflect my current mood or state of mind. I’m doing so much better! I do, however, appreciate how far I’ve come in my mental state & the time capsule it represents. (I still am drawn to Sherlock & Jude St. Francis, though.) I do not think that we should fake our own deaths. It’s cruel & unnecessary to our loved ones. I’ve spruced up this poem, because it’s old & needed to be dusted off.