The Monster Kills You and Forgets You Poem of Betrayal and Unrequited Love
the monster kills you… and forgets you
he’s killed you. you are dead. you stay dead.
unimportant to him, you do not even grace his memories,
sentenced to be forgotten.
like you didn’t love him,
like you weren't the only one who truly loved him,
saw him,
was him.
he’s killed you, stolen your identity and now you are dead, forgotten.
your quirks absorbed as traits of his, your name brandished as his,
the good taken from you and made his own,
everything he’s loved about you has now become disposable accessories
he can pick up and drop whenever
and that is your greatest prize for loving a monster.
the monster kills you… and forgets you.
what do I do when I die?
other than linger, stay, watch?
I’m unable to do anything else but linger.
my finger hovers slowly above the follow button.
a part of me pulls, draws me in, begs me to—
to give in, to fold, to surrender.
to surrender to the grief,
the knee-weakening give-in.
I don’t want to leave.
I don’t want to be forgotten.
I don’t want to be killed,
my body discarded and thrown off the road.
my name’s no longer mine it’s become of the world’s,
for the world to see you knowing my name,
to call you saying my name but still it’s not enough.
do you bring out the light in someone only to be killed before you can bask in it?
no credit scenes, cut out of the background and erased
as if you played no part even when you were the star actor,
the one who the show revolved around?
I don’t want to rot slowly.
I don’t want my clothes to dry off as my flesh decays,
sinking to the ground,
eaten by the beasts of the land and air,
nibbled on, fed on.
I don’t want to be smelly and rotten.
I don’t want only my bones to remain
as a reminder that I was there.
I want to be alive.
next to him.
so my finger lingers, it hovers,
watching him slowly through my screen,
through the lens I can’t reach him in.
all I can do is stare, watch,
outside my screen.
unimportant.
dead. dead to him.
dead. rotting. forgotten.
the monster kills me… and forgets me.
but which is the worst death?
to be killed or to be forgotten?
to be the only one who remembers,
or the only one who stays?
dead. dead. rotting. decaying. forgotten.
I don’t want to be.
I don’t want to die,
the one who saw him,
next to him,
was him.
not even buried, but left to decay.
is that worse?
the fact I didn’t even get buried?
irrelevant enough to deserve a proper goodbye,
just tossed.
a two-foot hole wasn’t even dug for me,
no hole, no effort, nothing.
just tossed.
was my love nothing?
was it always one-sided,
my obsession with him,
my adoration and worship for him?
did he lie when he reciprocated?
when he opened up to me, was it all lies?
when he promised I’d stay alive forever next to him,
how could he? why could he?
what’s wrong with me?
why do I desire to be next to the person who killed me?
why do I wish to rot in peace instead, next to him?
why would I choose a slow death
as long as I was with him?
what’s wrong with me?
what’s wrong with me?
what’s wrong with me?
I don’t want to be dead.
I want to be alive.
beside him. with him.
us. me. him. we.
alive. happy. happy. alive.
let our love be alive once more.
why must I rot?
why must we rot?
why can’t I be next to him, alive?
why can’t we be alive?
what’s wrong with me for still wishing we were alive?
I miss him.
my finger lingers.
I miss him.
my finger swipes on our pictures together.
I miss him.
my finger scrolls our videos.
I miss him.
and because of this…
I can’t even rest in peace.
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