[your name here], rest in peace

we are all reduced to pages in books somewhere

we can't choose what will be written about us

but we can all die knowing it.

when the dirt is poured over our body-

matching boxes, burned

to ash, we become flat little

pages in books somewhere. binders of photos,

our printed text messages or social media,

whatever it may be, it comes back

to pages.

^{if we could see all those words ourselves,}

^{the first thing i'd do with mine}

^{would be}

^{sh re d di ng ever y}

^{l ast pa g e}

for years i've wondered how people wrote
about me or thought about me.
in highschool, i liked to take guesses
about the lives of the students who
would never spare me anything more
than holding the door and
a small smile from time to time,
i liked to guess about where the strangers
on the city bus were doing, i wondered if i
had ever been written about at all
for how strange i saw myself
and how strange i now think i might've
was. the grey days of Hamilton should
ever welcome me back, i wonder
if anyone would see me, know me,
and if so, i wonder what they'd have
to say. to me or behind my back, i'd
find a way to notice. if a lot of these
strangers saw me and approached me,
i'd know i was written of by one of them
or someone they knew. if none did
it would be safe to assume 'none'.
through text, pens, even disappearing
social media messages, i exist/ed... in
written words. joan of arc was never
depicted in any art while
she was living, and yet she is over-
documented through written words.
we know the people she spent nights
with, the clothes she wore on which
day, the words she spoke and to who.
we all exist like that, to certain extent, but
who's to say?

2 Kudos

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