The French speak of a little death,
The likes of which I have never experienced;
A fact, I think,
I’d like to remain unchanged.
Perhaps, it is because the only little deaths
I do know of,
Did not come from a body attaining the
Crescendo-ing peaks of pleasure, nor from
A mind wiped blank,
By a kiss across my lips;
Rather, the deaths I know of, are
Anything but pleasure—
‘Though they say, and though I know,
That in pain, there can be
A certain type of pleasure.
Instead, they are the little things—
Not like when you forgot my birthday,
Nor when my mother once asked me for its date
(I’ve asked for hers, too, you see).
No, these little deaths
Are nothing like those moments.
The deaths I have lived, came from
The months of contemplating,
Just quite what was wrong with me,
When everything I said, and did
Was never right enough for you.
They are the days I feigned smiles,
When you hurt me, because you were
And when I taught myself not to cry,
And learned how to rage,
They became the anger that consumed me,
And stole my smile from my lips.
So when you tempt me with your soul in your eyes,
And lull me to an inexplicable peace with the sound of your voice;
And paint the smile on my lips back on,
With the stroke of your words,
Forgive me, but I
Shall not indulge in the funeral of little deaths,
Until you’ve learned to kill your fear.
Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron
Friday, April 24, 2015-Sunday, April 26, 2015.