DEATH Poem: Stingy on the praise Eulogy, by Emilija L. Ducks

I think he’d be surprised to know I grieve him, Jo.

Sometimes I found him pitiful, asking for a hair of the dog, nudging for physical contact, offering oral, with his good hands now touched up with formaldehyde.

First thing I ask is if it was suicide, it wasn’t. I feel relief. His songs have less than a thousand listens on spotify, and they’re in my wrapped. I once asked for the lyrics, so I can upload and follow as he sings. I wasn’t doing a kindness, I have auditory processing issues, and I like his lines.

He pissed me off for his potential. For how frail he looked, how he reminded me of myself, so I needed to get him up, make him well, because if he was well, maybe I could be well, too. Then I estimated he needed something I couldn’t give, and I needed to fuck well off for a while because I know better than to try to be a liferaft with holes in me.

And then he doesn’t slit his wrists, like he tried, he doesn’t take pills, like he also tried. He just has a seizure while out for a cigarette.

I can’t stop thinking of the dumbest shit. His face below me, his smell when he hugged me, when I felt I feared him, when he said he feels safe with me, when I felt him get annoyed, when he told me I’m intimidating, when I was annoyed; the scent dies, that’s weird.

No one’s gonna smell like Jo, it goes with him. It’s this niche stamp of identity, and I don’t know why it hurts so much to think about. That body getting cremated will not smell like Jo like Jo smelled like Jo. And he’s not there inside my Signal app again, to tell him about my new song, him suggest not to master it, me master it anyways, him say it’s good, maybe I can master my own songs.

He’s not there to record me play my silly little song about being obsessed with another man, and he’s not there to climb the staircase while I compose a song about him climbing up the staircase, and record it on my phone with a grin while he holds the space, appearing confused, not necessarily confused, but confused works, I guess. How safe I must’ve felt, I don’t make songs unless I’m alone. I record it while staring at him, turning the page aggressively. I don’t think any version can replace the original, since he will never sit across from me again.

When I hear his songs now, I can’t ask him what he meant. I was just something stuck in your throat, I chose to not tell. When I looked at his arms, I knew he’d done more damage than my attempt casually, without even calling it that. Everyone knew he needed help. He died ingloriously. I don’t know if mine will be as simple as he. He was good, he wasn’t God, he was too pained to be a saint, too bitter for sweetness, but he was good. He stood up for what he
believed in.

I think he’d be surprised I grieve him, Jo. I don’t know what he would say, and whether it’d make a difference if he said it drunk, of well fed and calm. I think he’d like that I’m dissing on him. He swallowed compliments better when they had a touch of spice, and I’m the same. I couldn’t help him. I couldn’t help him. I don’t know what happens with the jacket he wore. His jewellery. His piano. I want that piano.

I have silly things only I know the sentimental value of. Wagamama chopsticks in a book, a rock, butterfly origami. I wonder what happens to those things he owned. I start speaking to him inside my mind, not as a wish, but comfort. I don’t think it could’ve gone another way, but are you surprised I grieve you? Did you find my jokes funny? Isn’t it weird how you’re dead now, Jo? You liked my poetry on instagram. It’s so dumb but it meant so much, I couldn’t…you weren’t good with taking kindness in. Is that why it ends so early for us? How much longer do I get, Jo? How silly will I look wriggling?

I don’t think I could feel it if anyone closer died, Jo. It’d go straight in the box. You ease me into it, Jo – thank you. And I knew. I don’t know how, but I knew. I could smell death on you. I was so afraid for you. Oh, Jo. It’s not fair that I wasn’t wrong. It’s not fair you weren’t loved and loved enough to feel satiated. It’s not fair you didn’t feel peace, just wriggled and wriggled and wriggled and stopped. Where did you go? There was so much of you, where did it go? Is it inside me? How silly is that, Jo, my mind can’t be trusted with the perception of men. Titans, worms, whore Zeuses, Adonises, sad, small, Hades, Soft Boys, Orpheus with his lyre and an empty
stadium

The last interaction we have is when I tag you on an insta story with a Blur boyband photo from the 90s, and the music over it goes “KYLIS – kill your local indie soft-boy.” you say, “I like how of all the bands, you associate me with Blur. I mean, I like Blur sometimes…” with 4 dots on your ellipsis (like a middle aged man, Jo).

I write “Ah, it’s so odd. I feel like we both must feel unseen by each other.