But really,
how much work does it take to
fake one’s own
death?
Like what kind
of connections do you need,
and how
do you start planning it?
And, most importantly,
how long into it
before you go mad
quoting Emily Dickinson poetry
to yourself
as an inside joke
you can share with
only yourself
about
the fly buzzing when you
died
in the house
where you
died–
the carriage ride you took
with Death
to get there?
And then when
you have your new identity,
every new person you meet
is like, “Who are you?”
And you’re like,
“I’m nobody! Who are you?”
And they’re like,
“Wow. Nerd alert.”
And you’re like–
internally, of course–
“Lol. No, but really, I’m dead
in real life.”
How much of this
could you stand?
Would it be worth it
to live
in your own death
with Emily Dickinson
and all your
guilt and paranoia?
Looking over your shoulder
for cops and ex-flames,
always half an ear hearing
the dialogue between
the spirit and the dust?
Like sometimes
I think I could do it,
and sometimes
the nights in my brain would just be
too wild.
I Started Late and Forgot the Dog. 
Brilliant!
You’re too kind.
I love this. I think it’s something a lot of people have thought about in depth, planning and all that, which is what makes the last sentence of this so wonderfully placed.
Emily Dickinson and I tend to write a lot of poetry together–sometimes consciously and sometimes subconsciously. I sometimes wonder what her thoughts would be on topics, especially this one. So it was fitting to me to call back to my favorite of her poems as the last line. Thanks for all your comments!