The Bride is Dead

This is a dead bride. Dead dead dead.

Think about all the things that might have been.

Think about all the jokes that never got told, and all the phone conversations that will never be had.

Think about how no matter what anybody says or does, The Bride is dead.

Part of me doesn't want to see the sparkly dress get zipped up in that bag because that means that it's over, for sure.

But then, I think of how wonderfully she died, how she took her own life (no autopsy necessary!), and how much less it will hurt now that I don't have to think about her future anymore.
I don't want to know that she's in the ground, in the dark...

But the alternative is having her propped up in the living room, stinking up the place. And who needs that? Not me. I am relieved, just a little already. The wait is over. The Bride is dead. I don't ever have to think about her again.

I don't ever have to learn to touch her.

I don't ever have to save her life.

Because The Bride is dead.


11.11.11:This little bit of pedantic meandering is the result of the dissolution of my fuckship with The Bride. Since this was originally posted, she's no longer a bride and I still think she's a selfish cunt. So I guess that makes us even?