a eulogy for the girl that dies first; or, alternatively, a critique on western media on who becomes the final girl and who becomes the first corpse, and overall why i learned to hate horror movies
this is for the girl who died first-
the forgotten, the scorned,
this if for the girl who blew out seventeen candles off of her cake just two days ago.
when they open you for the autopsy
they’ll ignore the holes already inside.
in their hands you come undone
you’re a sick sort of martyr now
heralded by undesirables.
i think i saw you in a dream last night
we ran together, down the barren concrete street
you never let go of my hand and i still felt the crescent moon tips
of your fingernails when i woke up.
tell me,
when did you refuse to die
as the damsel in distress?
as the girl too young to have all these eyes on her?
this pain should not be a shared concept.
they will barely wait til your body hits the dirt,
the dirt you spent so long trying to escape,
before you turn into a clumsy metaphor
recited in hollow homes to deaf ears
take off your heels, your fake diamonds
there’s no use for them where you’re going.
you’re the eighth deadly sin now, darling
how long will it be until i too become a crude metaphor
recited in hollow homes to deaf ears
we’re open targets either way- we never stood a chance
against the close lipped prayers,
the clutched rosaries,
the purity of the girl with the movie star name
and you can’t even be mad;
because you know there’s no way you could have ever made it
not even in the director’s cut.
become the sacrificial lamb or the suicidal intent
but i beg of you,
make your death indecipherable.
there will be no weak analogy to our end
we’ll become the things they fear the most
i won’t let you fade into a warning,
echoed and compounded over time
so raise a glass, everyone.
this is for the girl who became the thing she feared most-
broken and fractured and shattered-
this is for the girl who kept running,
even when there was no land left to run on.