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which is bullshit. elliott didn't kill himself, his girlfriend did, and i was sad when i read the police report because the whole thing had been so romanticized in my mind, because i am weak girl from the suburbs and i love romanticizing death and i was exploiting the knife-in-chest for my own personal emotional fantastic gain and i just finished reading a beautiful book recommended to me by a girl who lost her boyfriend to the sea, and her name is sarah elizabeth and his name was rudy, and his death to me is vague and impersonal but romantic because it involves the ocean and because i am a weak girl from the suburbs, a quiet middle-class neighborhood where i once found a pack of cigars on the ground and smoked nearly every day since because i thought it was cool and because i think that smoking is romantic in its own way, and it's more of a fuck you to daddy than anything, it's holding in the smoke too long to fuck up my little pink lungs while daddy listens to stupid and useless people's stupid hearts and it's a fuck you to mother who administers chemotherapy to people dying of lung cancer and she still reads the fucking obituaries first even though my face is on 16A in the middle of a bunch of stupid politicians from maine, there's me in my stupid hat and stupid sweater vest in the paper from the 26th on 16A and she still reads the obituaries first because she has to know who's not coming in for their infusion tomorrow and in my head i picture their poetic small corpses and realize that i have never seen death the way my mother or father have and that's why it's so romantic, because i haven't seen it or touched it with my hands or declared it so or received payment for trying to keep it alive and failing, failing every time so fuck you daddy, here's my last cigarette because i'm seventeen and i'm never going to die.
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