To Deb With My Love And Gratitude Poem by grace mariner

My world has become much less interesting with your passing.
It's not the first time, the first loss. God no!
Yet it seems to take a piece of me with it every time it happens.
The losses are not always what you would think and so hard to explain to anyone or anything...
except pen and paper...and you.
I am different for many reasons.
I will not wilt away as an old woman, in fact, I will become more noticeable.
My witchcraft.
My tattoos.
My piercings.
All a part of my show.
I am the peacock, not the peahen.
Pieces missing, lines unfolding, but still I strut.
I am a seeker of the unusual.
Some of my losses others may see as gains as they rid me of poor choices.
Or so they think.
I don't need anyone to judge my life, my choices.
If I thrive on the chaos, then so be it.
It breaks the tedium of a life restricted by other peoples fascist rules.
We have to cover who we are to survive.
Does that tattoo really reflect who or what a person is?
That again, is fascist thinking.
Those who think like that are book burners, judging what we can and cannot know, they fear the uprising of an informed member of the flock.
It is a dangerous thing to be a rebel.
Conforming is the safest bet, erase the past so we no longer have to acknowledge the atrocities that have occurred.
Be a liar.
Be a follower.
Be a hate filled bigot.
Deny our bloody past because learning from it makes you an outsider and a danger to those who have their 30 pieces of silver.
As for me, when I cross over, I want those who knew me to say,
the world has become a much less interesting place, just as I say of the passing of you.