If I had a tombstone what would it read?
Would it read, here lies:
“The girl who couldn’t tell the truth.”
Would those words be enough to tell my story?
Do tombstones tell stories?
Do the epitaphs have,
a beginning, middle and end?
Stitched together, a patchwork of black, white and grey?
Or do they capture life lived
in such a succinct manner,
that the prologue, epilogue, context
cease to be?
Are those words meaningless, split at the seams?
Like the tattered tapestry of an old silken scarf,
that no longer serves,
the youth of its mistress?
The final words, so brief, almost rendered unimportant,
like the overtures, middle and end of an elegy,
for the ears of the one who lies
in the casket.
The tombstone and its words,
the story and the protagonist,
bedfellows curried in time’s flame.
Finally made to life, in death.
Would my tombstone
“Lies of the girl who thought
she said the truth.”