fake my death

I fantasize about faking my death,
a grand exit, a final act, the perfect vanishing point.
Because some days, this world is too damn much.

I’d stage it with drama and precision,
to see who’d show up for the free food,
who’d crack jokes by my closed casket,
who’d fake tears while scrolling Insta.

I’d watch from the wings, sipping wine,
wearing the same smirk I wore to every betrayal.
While whispers rise like smoke:
“She was so complicated,”
“Always so dramatic,”
“Remember when she… well, never mind.”

’I’d count the mourners like prison wall tally marks:
Who came for me?
Or for the show?
Who really came to mourn?
Who came for gossip?
And who came because deep down,
they knew-
without me,
the circus tent collapses.

He’d be there too,
that man - him - who left me for her.
With his crocodile tears,
slick as his gaslighting grin.
Wearing the same suit he wore
when he twisted the knife and blamed me for bleeding.

And when it’s over, they’d all shuffle out,
into their scrolling, sipping, selfie routines.
While I slip into the shadows of my escape-
Undead. Unbothered. Uninvited.
Because while the dead rest.
I fucking roam.

🖤 Love and spirals,
Cyn the Bougie Hippie

☕ exchange a latte for an E‑book of my memoir Escape to Mexico.