Most people will die with their bodies in damn good shape.
Neatly kept, clean, like they were waiting for the mortician all along.
A few crow’s feet, maybe a little sag around the chin,
but overall—good enough for the open casket.
The funeral director will nod,
“Looks just like them,” they’ll say.
As if that’s some kind of fucking achievement.
But then there’s us—
The ones who didn’t treat life like a goddamn waiting room.
We come in with screws in our bones, plates in our heads,
scars running across our skin like crude roadmaps.
We come in with cigarette burns, busted knuckles,
wrinkles earned in back alleys, in bars, in love, in wars in octagon of life
(physical, emotional, financial—pick your poison).
Our hands don’t look soft because they weren’t.
Our ribs might have been cracked, our teeth chipped,
and our hearts—
well, our hearts certainly don’t come in mint condition.
No embalmer can fix what life did to us.
No makeup can paint over the shit we’ve been through.
They might try to sew up the damage,
smooth out the years,
but some things don’t hide.
And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe it’s better to arrive at the end,
not looking like a goddamn mannequin,
but like someone who actually lived.