To be reposted at a much later date. Hopefully.
I died doing what I loved, which is supposed to be a consolation.
I died doing what I loved, which makes it all the more tragic.
Why couldn’t my last breath come during a calculus exam or while standing in an unmoving line at the grocery store?
Why couldn’t I die in the office, staring blankly at the computer screen on a Monday morning, reminiscing of a long summer weekend?
Instead, I was killed on a Saturday. Riding my bike in the sun. With a smile on my face.
I still had miles to go.
You killed me for three seconds. For 10. For 30.
Because you were going to be late, because you didn’t care to look, because I was, in fact, invisible.
To you, my life meant less than an unanswered text.
I wish I could be angry but I can’t. I no longer exist. My flesh and bones will soon burn into ash and come to rest in a vase at my memorial service.
Out of the malice, impatience, and to feel big, you ran me down to prove a point: that two tons is greater than a human being.
I am lighter than a glass of wine, more fragile than eyeliner, quieter than a vibrating cell phone.
You couldn’t afford to make a wrong turn and I wouldn’t want my life to steer you down the wrong path, so go ahead and look up the directions. You were born with two eyes for a reason. One on the phone and one on the road. The road was straight though. So two eyes on the phone, for just a moment.
I was in the way. Out of place, where four wheels are welcome, not two.
I’m now an ugly red smear on your bumper and an expensive, spider-webbed windshield. Drive away quickly before they see what you did. Let me grow cold on the shoulder of your road, to die alone with blood quickly pumping out and air ever more slowly gasping in. I will soon be a bloating, stinking carcass, awaiting flies. Nothing more. Just a cyclist.