Whatever BS philosopher, or want to be enthusiast, told you death is beautiful – is a liar.
There’s nothing beautiful about having a cement brick sitting in the pit of your stomach when you first discover that your loved one is suddenly cold and lifeless.
The deafening silence that follows, the numbing of your limbs and the void you feel, is not pretty.
What’s so iridescent about a hole burning in your chest?
A hole that will never heal, be filled by the likeness of anyone or the "peace” of any being. So, what exactly is "closure"?
Because trying to push the memory of them to the back of your conscious isn’t it.
You don’t get satisfaction knowing that the soul, spirit and essence of someone you love is departing to some vast divine unknown, while their body which kept them rooted in this plane is laying six feet under earth.
They’re food for earthworms and maggots; sucking at their eyeballs and gnawing at their brain matter.
While you’re left lament over their absence.
How can anyone say that, “They’re in a better place,” “You’ll see them again,” “They’ll be watching over you.”
Those forced words of empty content do not warm my heart
Let me put it in perspective:
You try closing your eyes and imaging someone you can’t live without – their heart still, their smile you grew to love fixed in a hard-emotionless line and their body waxed with chemicals.
Wearing make up to cover their dead expression. Sleeping permanently in a box with their flesh falling tenderly from their bones in the most forgotten place in the world.
Is it still beautiful?
They don’t prep you for the ugly shit either.
The sleepless nights crying and muffling screams into your pillow.
Befriending blades that make cowardly slits to your wrists.
Popping endless narcotics to numb a pain that would resonate with you for the rest of your life.
They don't worry about the ever-present darkness that would loom over you, when you thought for one day you’d smile, and try to make the best of your shitty reality.