The white gown was so beautiful before...

I’ve had 3 dreams in the past month with this recurring theme of me at a wedding that was simultaneously a funeral. A point in the astrals that felt like both heaven and hell. It seemed that my psyche was processing the fact that to come into union with a certain aspect of self, there would be death taking place simultaneously. Maybe it foreshadowed the very short romantic rendezvous that mirrored a fragmented relationship between my own self. That in order to truly unify with myself, I must die with myself. In each dream, the funeral played like background music.

But the main event was always the wedding. This narrates the process of my own evolution. Constant celebration of the unification with death always looming over me. Death always present, yet not fully acknowledged with the same level of gratitude. Why? Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be seen bleeding in my white gown. The same gown that symbolizes the purification of everything I processed in the background. I must bleed into the white gown to show everyone that what was once pure can be ruined. To show everyone how gruesome the journey was that led me to this point. These words that I type onto this white paper is me bleeding. The white gown was so beautiful before. So clean. But what’s underneath is beautiful too. NO MERCY etched into my thigh as only as a scar. A scar that once bled. This white gown feels like an imposter suit. I want everyone to see what is underneath. The claw marks. Knives pierced through my nipples. The curvature of my hips. The arch in my back. The evidence that I met death. The evidence that I desired. The evidence that I am violently alive. The proof that I chose a haunting road. And with each lesson pulled from the gunk, I am still raggedy underneath. Beautifully raggedy. I am bloody. As everyone greets me in my beautiful white gown. They hug me. They congratulate me. They praise me for who I’ve become to them. It’s always who I am in relation to them. It’s never who I am in relation to me. In relation to my filth. In my relation to dark unsensible paths. Paths that only I know are leading me to death that is always marriage. It’s just marriage to them. A lingering funeral for me. I walk down the aisle. I take my place on the altar. I look before my mirror. I hold the mic in my hand. I take a breath.

“Does anyone want to see my scars?” I say.

My guests look at me. It’s silent. Their faces drawn in concern. Or maybe fascination.

I continue with my vows.

“Does anyone want to see what bleeds underneath my gown? Does anyone want to see the remnants of my darkness? The way I used my body as a sacrifice? Does anyone want to see what I've covered up in purity etched into my soul from past lives where my worth was defined by my degree of holiness? Or are you only ever concerned when it's pretty? When it’s digestible to your dehydrated hearts? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” Oh, but I did.

I take off my heels. I rip off my dress. The shreds surrounding me like salt during an exorcism. They watch. Some disgusted. Some smiling. I grab a candle and allowed the flames to disintegrate what was shielding. The heat illuminating my entire lower half. Shadows dancing across my skin. I surveillance the audience. I scan the faces of old lovers. Family. Acquientances. Then I scan myself. Observing the parts of my body that each shadow basked in. That each found comfort in. The flames have a way of creating the perfect atmospheric perception, in which you can see what was once hidden. Not hidden in presence. More so hidden from observation. Who am I in all my messiness? When the villain becomes a comrade? When I’m not constantly correcting myself? When I lean into the sensations of who I am now. To dance across forms as an act of presence. Honoring the calls that are coming from right inside the house. So, yes. The white dress was beautiful before. It was neat. But this fire stained dress is a translator.

"All that I ask is that when I am to die, bury me naked.

For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Til Death Marries Us…I do.”

WHEN THE WEDDING IS A FUNERAL.

WHEN DEATH COMES TO INSPIRE.