I like to believe they will weep
when they lay me to rest
but I’m afraid they will only cry
if they once found me pretty.
“Beautiful girl,” those people would say,
“Such a shame.”
And perhaps still only if I remained pretty,
laying there in an open coffin,
young, pale, and peaceful.
Dead is their favorite view of innocence,
no potential for corruption.
Tragedy is their favorite aesthetic,
offered up in the form of a young girl’s death.
I would like to believe they will weep
but perhaps I would have to die now.