Eulogy of Me

She was the most beautiful storm I’d ever seen, so full of rage, emotion, and yet nurturing. Her smile was electric, her laughter contagious but her cries were lethal. I’ve never met someone who felt as much as she did. When she loved, oh, she loved to the edge of the world and when she hated—well, you can imagine it was catatonic.

I loved many things about her but I was never able to love her properly, not in the way she deserved. She had a sparkle to her, an unexplainable one, even after all that had happened to her. I loved the way she’d throw on her headphones and dance under the pink colored lights of her bedroom. I loved the way she changed her hair from blue to pink to blonde and how long she’d grown it. But most importantly, I loved the way she loved people. She was reserved and quiet but the moment her eyes locked on a certain someone, a flame lit within her. She became fiery and comforting, swallowing them whole until they became a part of her very being.

It was touching at first but then I realized that was the calm before the storm, before the first wave. She lost herself within these temporary people, and felt like she couldn’t live without them. It didn’t matter if the relationship was platonic, romantic, or strictly sexual, she needed these people. The moment she felt the first tear, she became dreary, in so much heartache, and as the rips grew larger and deeper, she roared. Her screams would shake one down to their core, and that's when she was determined to destroy everyone and everything, including herself.

Still here, I stand. I can’t get enough of her. I miss her so. 

What hurts me most is that I didn’t notice her disappearing into the wind, little by little. She grew quieter than ever, she stopped everything she adored and stayed with people who did not love her. She drank and smoked more than she noticed, she craved it even. The feelings of numbness and the freedom of floating in and out of consciousness. I’m sorry to say that I didn’t notice when she died, I only remember the moment I was born. Born into this empty vessel full of opportunity yet covered in wounds that need more than a bandage. I’ve mourned her for enough time now and through my grieving I have learned what it means to love oneself. My love this time will be abundant enough for the both of us.

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Ariel Moscat
Staff Writer

​Ariel Moscat (she/they) is a latinx second generation American writer. As a witchcraft practitioner and spiritualist she focuses on diving into the world of the occult and sharing their stories. Along with that, they enjoy writing personal essays and short story fiction. Ariel is a certified bookworm, tree-hugger, and anime lover.