Work Text:
Your death is for
the men you leave behind.
What’s your name, you ask?
Oh, why would you want to know
a thing like that? Your name might be
Mary or Jess or Karen or
Charlie or Ellen or Jo or
you might not have a name
at all: just an apostrophe-S
after his.
But what does your name matter,
when you’ll always end up
right back here
with Me?
Don’t look so surprised.
This is just the chorus
of an old, old song.
Nothing personal against you. This isn't about
who you are; it's about
what you are to them.
A story is like a plant.
It needs to be fertilized,
and it needs to be watered.
That’s your role here:
body and blood.
You should be happy.
The flowers that sprout from your death
in the stories of the men you leave behind
will be so beautifully tragic
for them.