Murdered

The hardest thing about being ceremoniously murdered

is that no one tells you, and there is no funeral;

you just wake up dead one day,

fully expected to continue existing,

tidying up, going to work, talking

and listening to people,

as if their anecdotes, jokes, and complaints

mean anything to a dead woman.

Being ceremoniously murdered gets easier,

especially if the same (not sane) person

keeps killing you,

perhaps wondering why,

for the love of god,

Won’t you stay dead?

Death doesn’t suit me.

I will not stay dead for anyone,

least of all you. I’m climbing

out of this box you lock me in

until you want to play again,

like some ragdoll not allowed to be real.

Meanwhile, you try to breathe life

into these ridiculous girls who

can’t do it on their own, lavishing

you with their helplessness and need

until you feel like a hero,

suffocating the realest woman you’ve ever known

So dolls may play at being alive.