On The Death Of My Last Fuck

Dear empaths, activists, rebels & revolutionaries,

and convenient victims of consequences, 

welcome.

You stand on hallowed ground today,

for my last fuck is dead.

And just like your ex’s drama,

this death is absolutely irrelevant,

but then, so is the summary of your rather extended existence.

And, irrelevance comes with a lot of time to kill

so be patient for you have nowhere to be.

My last fuck

or rather the corpse of it 

was found

face-down in a swamp of clichés,

clutching a half-read hymn to positivity

and whispering, “Not again…”

The autopsy revealed, 

"Death by overexposure to human stupidity

an ugly, merciful, blessedly final end."

It was carried in silence,

fatter than an oversized boulder,

followed by my ex-boss, my ex-lover,

and my ex-hope for humanity, 

each pretending grief

while counting glances.

The Anthem of Indifference rose on hollow reeds,

a choir of broken philosophers hummed in dissonance.

The bearers stumbled,

crushed beneath the overweight gravity

of fairytale expectations.

Inside the coffin lay remains

a shriveled ember of sarcasm,

pickled in resentment,

wrapped in tissues I never used

when you cried over problems

whose answers were etched into time

long before you were born.

The Grim Reaper asked if I wished to speak.

I said, 

“Fuck off.”

That was the sermon.

And yet, the rites continued.

Smoke rose from burnt promises.

Whiskey spilled on the altar of tradition, 

a bitter brew for the dead,

who deserve stronger spirits

than the living.

Widowed sympathies, robed in grief,

wailed into hollow echoes,

chanting the last cliché, 

“Sometimes, letting go is salvation.”

The after-feast was a roast.

Every lover, master, friend, and acquaintance

offered tributes

each one shredded in real time

by my apathy.

In the corner, despair slow-danced with liquor,

while anxiety sang off-key

through a broken lung.

The deceased leaves behind survivors

like a good fuck leaves behind hope

sometimes regret, popularly called children. 

My last fuck was survived by

zero patience,

a restraining order against hope,

an empty, dusty box labeled Future Plans,

and a note that read, 

“Tell them I died bored.”

At midnight, we gave it to the elements.

The pyre was built from debts,

discarded vows,

and every hollow promise of a second chance.

The flames rose so high,

even the stars whispered, “Enough.”

The ashes were divided.

Half scattered into the earth’s cracks, 

so every passerby curses with purpose.

The rest given to the wind, 

so apathy rides on every breath.

From this day,

no condolences will be accepted.

The sympathy registry is closed.

The temple of caring has been razed,

replaced by an arena for mockery.

So here I stand,

head unbowed, lungs full of profanity,

declaring with absolute clarity:

I am out of fucks to give.

The vault is empty.

The treasury looted.

The only currency left

is ridicule.

Eternal, inexhaustible, mine.

Now clap.

Or stay silent.

It makes no difference.

Because even if I dug up my last fuck

and strangled it again,

none of you would be worth the ink for an obituary.