Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

16. tenebrific

we never know what to wear for funerals.

your black dress stopped short above your knees two funerals ago,

and my white blouse still smells like flower wreaths and after parties,

when the food tastes bitter

from the ash of coffins and corpses.

the pearl necklaces ma left for us coiled untouched in our shared vanity,

tangled amongst metallic earrings and rings i thought i had lost,

and cheap plastic bracelets you haven't begged to wear since you turned thirteen.

the smell of cosmetics—new and dusty and pink—ingrained in every nook and corner

of the wooden drawer.

we pick out the clothes.

put on our dresses and button up our vests.

perfume our necks, our armpits, the way ma showed us.

it should come familiar by now,

though it didn't.

the house feels empty,

with only two of us here.

i'm envious of those who can hear the dead's footsteps.

for try as i might,

up and down the narrow hallway,

the flight of stairs, the kitchen, the dining room, the foyer,

i won't hear the weight of dad's treads or

the grumbling snores on the other side of the walls ever again.

the eerie silence remained

still and sprawling across the creaky floorboards.

stuck, already disintegrated and buried as part of the past.

we aren't sad anymore.

we're adults, after all,

long outgrown the funerals where we huddled in the corner, clinging to each other

because we and the house and the fading disappearances of another life

were all that we have left.

we're adults now.

we attend funerals of half-strangers our parents were acquaintances with,

escort caskets down the aisle and toss fistfuls of dirt into numerous holes.

we listen to eulogies of figures we don't really know,

give our condolences with a champagne glass in our hands and pearl necklaces on our throat,

buy flowers and shake hands and smile at people who will soon end up in a coffin, too.

we don on black attires and tie up our hair,

shine our shoes and brush mascaras on our clipped lashes,

wear lipsticks too dark for our ages and rouges too bright for our faces.

we left home in the morning, and came back at night.

we don't smell like death, we just smell like exhausted crowds.

we're adults now but

we still don't know what to wear for funerals.

⸻

tenebrific: producing darkness

prompt: vanity