There is the death of waking at the same hour muscle memory unlearning itself bone-quiet, final as frost the sheets remember but the body has moved on Small death, small death Oh glory I am just a masterpiece orchestrated by the criminals of my mind and I let the pennies and side notes fall from my pockets as I walked home in the cold I turned around and found that the different parts of me became so hard to find locked behind the chemicals of the design I was born with The last time I said your name to an empty kitchen practicing the shape my mouth made before it forgot how I buried my certainty about god somewhere between Tuesday and Wednesday didn't mark the spot just felt the weight lift and settle elsewhere— Call it erosion call it evolution call it the slow unlacing of everything I swore was permanent So I stood nearly hypoxic under the weight of a panic attack maybe if I take it back I'll be better tomorrow I'll be better tomorrow better tomorrow tomorrow, tomorrow A belief dies making no sound louder than breath Small death, small death catalogue it, hold it up to light let it dissolve on the tongue like sugar, like snow The death of checking if you called of refreshing, refreshing of the ritual that needed you to make the day make sense— One morning I forgot to look and the death was already weeks old decomposing quietly in my pocket Small death Oh glory I sat by the fire today and forgot how to pray put my hands on my head pulled my hair out instead writhing away withering like the light of day a memory that couldn’t fade away any faster than the flicker of thought There are deaths that taste like relief: the bitter opinion finally released the grudge that tired of being carried the anger that burned itself out and left only ash, only space The self I was at seventeen died in increments too small to mourn one assumption at a time one shedding Do I grieve? Do I celebrate? Both. Neither. I watch And I swear I won't, I don't, I can't take myself seriously So, seriously, why you tryna make moves on me? Leave me alone just let me fucking bleed, please The death of needing to explain myself the death of performing understanding the death of making myself smaller quieter more palatable— These deaths feel like wings Small death, small death, small each one a subtraction each one a liberation each one preparing me for the final— Until I find you alone in a room with him in a town you'd hoped you'd never find yourself in you've got your hands wrapped around his neck just like he asked you to do except his face is turning red for all the wrong reasons and you said, "'tis the season to this new kind of fucking love" The kind that melts with the pain before it hits your unconscious brain because I beat you up and you beat him up so I think we're done here I think we're done here I think we're done here I think about the death of fear how it doesn't happen all at once but in moments: Fear of heights died on a Tuesday rooftop fear of silence died alone in the house fear of being wrong died in the middle of admitting I was Small deaths pile up like leaves like years like versions of myself I've shed and can no longer name Oh glory I whispered your name in between the "oh glories" I held my breath as I said your prayer Oh glory Just like the wind that moved through me Oh glory my body's a temple dismantled Oh, do you hear me when I say "Oh glory" when I call out for you with words? There is the death of the story I told about my life the narrative that made sense the through-line I drew to connect the scattered, the broken— That story died and left only this: moments unconnected each one breathing on its own Small death, small death how many can one body hold? All of them preparing preparing— Oh glory Oh glory, be Oh glory Small death, small death, small Oh glory be Oh glory Small deaths pile up like leaves like years Oh glory Oh glory Small death Oh glory be Oh glory Small death Oh glory Oh glory Oh glory be
