Today as my bloated broken body becomes an increasing inconvenience, I have a few final words.
That tarnished suit of flesh and sinew was not an inconvenience to me. Nor was my heart and soul inside.
No more an inconvenience than your own sorry hide you now wish to save. My twisted and bloated dead body had as much right to life and love.
That twisted lifeless tormented rotting flesh? That was as real as yours. As full of hope and love and frustration and desire and ambition and tears and fears. As yours.
You and I? We
are were the same.
Except you can never say sorry. Never make me real. Not as real as you. You will never mourn me like those who love me mourn now. You cannot.
For that would make me real. That would make me a person. Like you.
That would put me in your mirror. The one in which you check your hair is perfect for the world’s cameras. That your pious expression is just right for a wronged innocent. That your reputation is adjusted just so. Just the right angle to continue this self-deceipt.
Your mirror must only see an inconvenience. Not me.
Or else you might look as twisted and broken and bloated as I look now.
And that would never do.
I do not pity you. I do not forgive you. I do not hate you. I do not agree with you. I do think anything of you at all.
You took all of that when you took my life.
But you should know this. As I fell twisting and bloodied those six miles to my execution …
I was only of love. For those I love and who love me. My final seconds of torture were of love not hate. Of love not inconvenience. Of love not fear. Of love not bullshit.
So look in your mirror. See what I see.
Not the manicured carefully adjusted word perfect politician.
I see a twisted bloated dying soul. You look a lot like me on the inside.
My outside, your inside. They are now the same.
For different reasons.