The Illusions of Other Sides No matter how much I shower I still smell the dirt on me, the decay of my death hidden beneath the still strong sting of chemicals used to preserve me even as I wasted away, the satin inlay of my coffin like the scent of a child’s favourite toy, the wood, oak, I broke to rise, gathering multitudes of splinters in my stained skin that I cannot remove not matter how much I pull and drag at them with my cracked nails, shadows of clay deep beneath their paleness, as unmovable as the splinters, all to reclaim air, sunlight, life, my life, the life I never wanted to leave, the life I missed as I missed the breath in my lungs, little realizing at the time, though I would learn it soon enough, that the life I led, the life I was so eager to return to, never existed anywhere but in my head, and I had wasted a good death – a sudden passing in my sleep, a blessing when measured against the manifold ways a person can cease to be - for nothing. Days have passed since I broke back into living, and, after discovering the life I knew was nothing more than imagination, all the places I searched that it was never a part of, I have spent that time showering every hour to remove the traces of death from me, even though I suspect that I will never remove that smell, its weight in the air as true and real as the life I sought was false and fake. And yet I will keep showering every hour of every day until the water runs dry or the rest of my body falls away and I am nothing but bone shining wetly, absent of all identity. I would clamber back down into the dirt, barricade myself back into my coffin – I returned to my grave soon after I saw the life I was seeking never existed, not wanting to be a dead man lost in a world with no place for me - but some disenfranchised soul, someone doomed to believe that any death is better than the worse days of a life, has taken it, covered himself up with all that loose dirt and broken wood, his earth-muffled cries of joy rising sluggishly towards the unfocused sky which looms mockingly above me. Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His play ‘Wall’ was part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. His debut poetry collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com. Their other appearance in Blue as an Orange can be found here.
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