I5, Beirut on Repeat

I think about death
a lot. Not how or when
or why or the other questions
asked in fifth grade current events.
I imagine everyone I know,
everyone I've met. I imagine
what they will say about me,
their reactions, from disbelief.
"You're joking!". The people who
will cry. The people who will laugh,
at me, with me, for me. The people
who won't care one way or the other.

I tell you this not from depression aged
in molded oak barrels, not from angst,
morbidity, lovers' quarrels.

I tell you this so you can fully understand
what I mean when I say I am not a
good person, for I am neither good nor
a person. I am a corpse walking, talking.
I am dead
and
I am only waiting
for everyone else to realize it.