Has he died yet?
My late father watching from a crystal ball when I write my suicide note,
You want me to serve your purpose but who am I though?
The question I wrote when he was peeping through,
It is always the questions one poses that decide which people are nuked
Which decides whether one is chosen from an adoption list,
You are an Orwellian animal stuck on a barren farm
But animals do not go through background checks and screens,
Do not patiently wait before a portal for the family to collect their spirits
Where they hanged
This is what he hopes will happen to delay the questions I will ask in person.
But dead people are not persons!
Dead people do not choose their own caskets
Unless they had a premonition and acted upon it,
Funeral songs are sung by the church you never attended
Speeches are made by those who never texted
back,
I meant to say texted back
I sometimes forget to complete sentences when I speak
Forget that I am not alone in the room talking to myself,
The silence I will have when they are done with the shovels
And collecting soil from the grave to summon me when I am needed.
It only those who are not needed who has a privilege to rest in peace
A comfort I give myself as I wait for the first visit on this tomb,
An enquiry on how I should have opened up and reached out
My psychology degree will finally be of recognition this time,
A thought I often pondered when I felt worthless
For not having an income,
For the dead are just therapists with just silence
The silence doctors gave when I asked what is wrong with me,
Please tell me what is wrong with me!
The question you ask when your loved ones do not choose you
When you do not know what else to do to save your marriage.
A to-do list is to listen and keep quiet when you are a woman
A role awaiting women in the grave again,
Your children do not listen since you are not around!
Your husband realizing that providing and not being there
Was never fatherhood,
You have spoilt these children-
Appreciative words you only received when you were around
For being around is the reason people do not appreciate your absence
Being around means to be tracked down to be raped
And murdered,
It means take everything from me till I have nothing to give.
It means do whatever pleases you with my body
Since I have nothing to give you,
It means raise the children for us till I am man enough to do so
It means open up to me and use the trauma against you,
Later when we fight
But for now I will not worry about later,
For now telling me that you still love me is enough
For we did not grow up being told that we are loved,
Being bought what you always wanted was how parents apologized
All those words were spared to be said later,
A later that never arrived.
It is this later that led to this suicide,
When you could no longer wait for them to account to you
Having searched for your father for decades to find him dead
A few weeks ago,
But you are the only person who thinks you are being owed
An explanation,
An explanation from your abuser asking them-
Why you?
But you means it ought to happen to someone else
Someone out there ought not to be loved,
Someone out there ought not to be heard.
You are then told that not everything is about you
When you were a child the sentence ended with
Grow up,
Words said when your ashes are sprinkled on the garden
A fertilizer for all the siblings with learning disabilities
You have left behind,
Generational curses are not lifted when others are left behind
At least that is what I used to believe when I was alive,
For being dead means acknowledging that the living
Do not owe you anything,
Your hope is to be buried on time and not rot in a morgue
While families fight over whose home soil you belong.
Freud is a retired activist who write from a perspective of the butterfly. A tired activist whose worldview is narrowed down to Jung and Lacan.