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He’s dead.
I think it many times before I say it, and even then, it doesn’t sound real. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. How many times must I say it? Why does my brain still believe this is a joke? Maybe he’ll jump out from behind the curtain and go, ha! Loser, you can’t get rid of me! Then he’d ruffle my hair the way he knows I hate and he’d smell of cinnamon and that one cheap cologne that never finishes.
But he doesn’t. Because he’s dead.
And maybe death isn’t enough because he still seems to haunt my dreams. I can hear his laugh: always short winded, sounding like plastic being scraped on glass. I hated him. He’s dead and I hated him and he loved me.
He’s dead and now I hate myself.
I can hear music, something Kendrick Lamar, something he would have liked. Our friends are drinking from plastic cups and smiling like idiots and saying, ‘this is what he would have wanted.’ and, ‘I think Jisung would be happy. he wouldn’t have wanted us to cry too long.’ But it hasn’t been too long. It’s been two days, he’s dead and our friends are partying like every other Friday.
Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still hear his soft breathing before I couldn’t anymore. I can still feel his hands on my chest as he forced me back into my seat, the pressure almost cracking my ribs, I can see the broken smile he gave me when he whispered it’ll be okay, as if he wasn’t the one with broken glass in his neck and as if he wasn’t the one with manacled bones.
I look down at the only scar the accident gave me and I can vaguely draw out his fingertips; they were always red and the tips were always cold and I always hated when he put them on me but now, now I wish he was sitting at this shitty table in this shitty party looking down at his body and vaguely drawing out my fingertips that he hated on him. I wish I was the one with the glass in my neck whispering about how we’ll be okay.
Because it’s selfish, maybe, and I’ve always been a bit of bastard, but I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and know the reason I am alive is because someone who loved me died and I can’t look at myself knowing it took his death for me to love him back and I can’t…
He’s dead. And I want to die. And I realize living for someone is worse than dying. And he’s dead. And he’s dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll feel real.