I died on an ordinary day
I died slowly, in a clean room,
with white lace curtains and a rug at the entrance.
no one strangled me.
I suffocated on my own.
the little girl in me who didn’t know her legs had grown,
had words stuck in her throat
swallowed whole and unchewed.
I died in silence,
like a room where the lights went out
and no one noticed.
no one lit even a stub of a candle.
not even me.
I died atom by atom
every time I said
“it’s nothing”
and it was.
when I lay down on the bench
with my hands neatly placed on my chest
and let them take
my time, my voice, my body, my desire.
it wasn’t a bloody death,
but one with ironed sheets
and a tired smile.
a domestic death.
in every “I’m fine.”
in every “don’t be upset…”
in every “it was my fault.”
I didn’t know how to leave myself without screaming
my body remained, but the soul had already left
I buried myself
under layers of loyalty, religion, shame.
under loose clothes,
under tight clothes,
under busy weeks,
under other people’s thoughts about who I should be.
I died when I mistook
love for obedience
sacrifice for identity
silence for virtue
“being a woman” for “disappearing beautifully.”
I buried myself with my own hands.
with one shovel full of fear and one full of guilt.
I poured dirt over myself,
over longing, over dreams, over truth.
so I wouldn’t be too much,
too loud,
too alive.
I died when they called me “good.”
and all I wanted was to be real.
and there was no wake
no one came to mourn me,
because women like me
die quietly
with the to-do list under their nails.
they die with lipstick on,
biting their tongue
with clenched teeth behind a smile,
so their death
doesn’t bother anyone.
but my bones
are beginning to remember
a dance never danced
and under the soil that keeps me hidden,
a heartbeat starts to rise, slowly but surely,
a YES.
a NO.
an I.
my death is not the end.
but the Door.
