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When I die, I want them to say I went supernova.

I want them to say that I went free-falling
out of their reach,
that I burned too brightly—
self destructed and faded to black
in the space of my own personal solar flare.

I hope they call me catastrophic.

When the pathologist slices my skin,
I hope new galaxies spill onto the autopsy table—
that they drain me free of stardust,
pull back my ribs to where my heart should be
and find only craters and old shadows.

I hope they study my scars like the constellations,
read them like a map
of a universe they never knew existed;
I hope that when I’m gone,
when I’ve finally imploded in on myself,
the planets will align with my bones
and for just one moment
I will be brighter than you ever imagined.
I hope it will be messy—
that I will be destructive, all-consuming,
a black hole—
that my body will be a battlefield
marked by comets and asteroids,
and that I am still white hot and fighting
when the dust clears.

I hope they label me devastating
in all the best and worst ways,
and when I am faded,
eclipsed by some new tragedy,
I only hope they will remember me
as a supernova in a barren sky.

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This article has 2 comments. Post your own!

Bridget K. said...
today at 6:28 pm:
Your writing forced me to look up synonyms for incredible. Please never stop writing. This should absolutely be in the magazine.
dreamshakerThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
today at 8:22 pm :
Oh my gosh, thank you so much. I am so flattered, thank you for taking the time to comment - this really brightened my day! :)
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