She Called Life a Con-Job

I was inspired to write my own eulogy. I quite like the result, though I feel as though it makes me sound like a narcissistic arse. The piece changed a lot as I wrote it, if that's any justification.

She was an ill-fitting gift without a receipt, but she carved her place into the world like the deepest trench in the saltiest ocean. She made her own truth even when she couldn't recognize her face in the mirror, but you'll see her face in crowds and night skies for as long as she takes to disappear. She was obsessive down to the bone craving everything in excess, often even nothing. Maybe she craved too much life and keeled over; I don't know. I trust her absence more than an autopsy, but I don't know if she ever trusted herself. She told me once that her thoughts were as safe as a house of cards in a tornado, and sometimes I wonder if she ever once truly believed herself or if she thought just to think. She made you think. She called life a con-job and said everyone was an outlier in their own perception, except for the Qaddafis and Hitlers and Stalins who saw themselves as the same only golden, just like that Jesus guy. I don't know how much of her I can believe anymore. She's less persuasive six feet under, but I can't help but taste her truths in everything I do believe. She believed in books. The old ones and the torn ones and the ones not yet written. She was always armed with a pen or pencil, ready to write the best ever she usually called a never ever, tilting to the right to focus on a detail she'd put in storage for a rainy day I don't think ever came. She had to die, because otherwise she'd have had enough perfection stocked away to craft herself, and I don't know if the universe could handle two of her.

Reviews

[Kestrova]

Your poetry speaks volumes by each little word, and the inflections within it paint a different picture than one might have assumed during the beginning. This is beautiful and shows what an incredible writer you are.

One's own eulogy is really something to think about; Who else to write it but yourself?
I absolutely loved this.