It Would Be Easier if You Were Dead
Seriously
Don’t get the wrong idea — I don’t want to kill you. But seriously, it would be easier if you were dead.
If you were six feet under, I’d know what to do. I’d go to the funeral and cry. I’d say some nice words to your family and I might even manage an awkward hug or two before I’d dash to my car and collapse.
Then I’d spend a few days, a few weeks, or a few months randomly crying in the kitchen while I washed dishes, or thinking of our first date that lasted an entire weekend and sadly smiling at the memory. I’d touch my face just the way you did the first time you kissed me and I’d remember how it felt to be so loved. On your birthday and your death day, I’d probably cry all over again. But at least I’d know it’s over.
At the very least, when they laid you to rest, I’d know there was no hope for a reunion. I’d know you were never coming back. I’d know that I would never again receive a random text or email or call from you. I’d know that I could quit hoping for something more. I’d stop hoping for an explanation because there is no explanation for death. And I could forgive myself for not calling you and asking you point blank if you still loved me. I’d stop wondering if you ever thought of me, of us, of the time we spent together.
