Choke On The Confetti.

I hear there's talk

that I’ve finally made my exit.

That the nuisance has been neutralized.

That the light has been extinguished

and the world may now proceed,

slightly more tolerable.

What a relief it must be

to bury someone who made you

feel small in your own skin.

I do hope the eulogies are flattering

and entirely off the mark.

Accuracy was never your strong suit.

But it did look lovely with your insecurity.

Celebrate, if you must.

There’s something charming

about a victory party held

in the absence of a win.

You see, I didn’t lose.

I left early.

Before the plot twist.

Before the credits rolled

and the villains realized

they were extras.

My death is not the end.

It’s a quiet promotion.

A transfer to upper management.

No need to write me back.

Heaven doesn’t forward mail.

But do know this

if you feel a strange chill

when lying becomes habit,

that’s not the draft.

That’s the memory of someone

who knew better.