An emergency room surgeon speaks at my funeral

The first time someone dies on your table you will take their sinew and tie it to the flowers in the dining table with twine. Use every part. Otherwise it’s murder. 

The first time you kiss someone they will bite down on the meat of your tongue with the dull teeth of an herbivore. Your tongue will hang out the side of your mouth like a mutt’s, sure, but that’s love bleeding down your throat.

The first time you look down the barrel of your father’s gun you will notice it bears a striking resemblance to the opening between your beloved’s legs. You could get swallowed up in the black chasm of it all, get loopy on the way down, change your favorite color or your order from your hometown sandwich shop.

The first time Damocles’ sword projects itself onto the scalpel your belly will fall out and you will be reminded of retching someone up just to lick chunks of them off the tile.

If you asked an astrophysicist he’d say we live in the dead part of space. Perhaps he’d liken the dinosaur-killing asteroid to the worms hollowing out the eyelids of a bloated corpse.

If you asked a mathematician he’d say look for Da Vinci’s ratio in the whirlpools, in the oils of your forehead, glistening under summer sun.

If you asked a college sophomore pockmarked with keloid scars he’d say the world is dying, man, let’s eat each other up while our atoms are still buzzing.

The first time you are asked to speak at a funeral you will be recently ex-Christian, fiery in the way only a fresh atheist could be. And you will spot God in the back pew, knitting.

About the Author

Riley James Russo is a teenaged author split between Ohio and Pennsylvania who endeavors to explore the human experience through various written forms, including novel, script, and poem. More information on their work is available on their Instagram, @rileyjamesrusso.