I’m often told that death is just another part of life. Another fragment, another puzzle piece, another brick in the wall.

“You can’t escape it!” they yell.

“You can’t hide from death!” they shriek.

I rest in the graveyard, gazing at her tombstone, those hateful, disgusting words carved in a rock slab, meant to label and describe her forever.

The people yell and claw at the gate behind me, spitting poisonous words and eroding insults.

“Murderer! Monster! Manipulator!” really?

Maniac. Morbid. Morose. really?

Killer. Killer. Killer. KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER KILLER!

REALLY?!

here lies a murderer

her hands stained with blood

and bad decisions

we hope she rots in hell

How could you wish such a thing on a person? A person who was a sister, a wife, a mother? How could you bury her against her wishes, and then not even use her name on the label?

I understand why, now. Those things behind the gates of the cemetery, their contorting faces yelling vile sentiments, and I understand why.

I want to kill them all.

But if I do, I will doom myself to the misery that she is in. I wonder, what will they put on my tombstone?

here lies a killer

and from the start

we all knew

that the apple doesn’t fall far

from the tree

the stars are falling

or am i falling

spinning swirling swimming

the blood pooling on my mother’s grave

and i want to tell her

i want to tell her!

i stuck by her when everyone hated

hated hated hated hated hated

i sat on her grave until a man

came through the gate

and put a knife through my heart

isn’t that what she is condemned for?

he will be a hero

for killing a demon

and i will be the demon

for killing a hero

just like she was

he gave me death

full of spite and vengeance

but i love him for it

because now

i will join my mother

even if we rot in hell together