My fiance asked me to marry him in June.
I don't think I would make a good wife for anybody.
He is much better off without me.
Tell my father, I have too many of my mother's tendencies.
1947, New York City.
Evelyn McHale jumps from the 86th floor of the empire state building and lands on the
roof of a limousine below.
The sound of her bones making impact with metal sends a photography student to the scene.
Snap.
Despite the fall she remains intact.
Snap.
Shiny black metal folds around her body like silk sheets.
Snap.
White gloves, pearls, and crossed ankles, she could easily be asleep.
Snap.
The next morning.
Her face graces a full page of The New York Times.
This photo will be christened "The Most Beautiful Suicide"
As if lives cut short should ever be ranked, and by beauty.
2016, New York City.
I do not turn to the New York Times for a beautiful tragedy,
But instead Facebook, or Twitter, or Tumblr A girl with pretty hair turns and shows off
her artfully running mascara.
Scroll.
A GIF of that line from that TV show, it runs on repeat, and hurts over and over again
I bet the writers knew how universal that pain was
I bet I re-binged the entire series on Netflix,
and I bet you did too.
Scroll.
"Reblog if you have more scars than friends" And someone reblogs hoping to make friends
Instead of talking about their scars.
It's not hard to find hurt here It's not difficult to push anyone closer toward
the edge And what could be worse than an early death?
Well, the romanticization of it.
The presentation of it as a valid option.
One that's no longer hiding in hush toned family histories
Or rewritten obituaries, But screamed everywhere with ease.
I can buy a snapback with block text that spells out "Suicide"
Or shirt that turns dead friend into a punch line
or novel that ends with a gun or brisk walk into calm sea
Or peaceful lie Or poisonous seed.
The words "beauty" and "tragedy" do not belong in the same phrasing
Yet we keep pairing them together Like two young, star-crossed lovers
Neither of which deserved to die.
Hey Bill, why'd they have to die?
Hey Sylvia, why'd you have to die?
Hey Ernest, hey Heath, hey Robin,
Why'd you have to die?
They say your genius lead you to it.
Were your eyes just more open than ours?
What did you see?
Did you see Evelyn fall?
Did you see how fast she went?
Not like a shooting star streaking across windows either,
But like a body falling off a building Because that's what happened
And though she was found intact She was so broken,
Standing on that ledge Looking down, most likely
not thinking about how 'pretty' she would look on the ground.
No comments:
Post a Comment