You died; how awful.
I’m currently overwhelmed by tributes to your artistic talent. Draped in purple prose and hyperbole, the praise lacks both subtlety and truth. Which frankly feels fitting.
It might have been awful for you to be publicly labeled a genius when you knew on some level that you weren’t one. You must have known, at least a little.
Oh shit. Did you not know?
Did you lack the emotional intelligence to feel conflicted over the false accolades, the paper crown placed upon you head? The clapping of your plastic clackers, your clique-claque?
Fuck. Did you not know you were a fraud?
Understanding yourself—in your profound mediocrity—would have required bravery. A modicum of self-awareness. To look within and face the truly ugly parts of art.
But. You didn’t go for such plebeian things; you thought yourself above them. You were too weak to take real risks.
Of course, you photographed yourself in your underwear, as if this were a daring act of bravery. Each bead of sweat was perfectly cultivated to reflect the blue light, framed just above your phone. Your filmed tears were just as fake. Your “blood” was made of corn syrup and dye.
But unlike a real actress, you refused to acknowledge the illusion. You gaslit your audience that what they were seeing was real.
That you were literally naked was the point. But, O false empress of bad frozen yogurt, there was nothing beneath your nudity. No profound truth, just flesh alone. Adorned in transparent panties, you’re nothing but glitter upon shit.
You harmed the very concept of art. Why? For accolades, for show points. Gross bodily functions get clicks and likes, and status. You sold out your emotions to appease the highest bidder. Which was actually quite cheap.
You know the mark of true genius? It entertains, for a moment, the idea that it might NOT be.
The reviewers were too afraid of your audience to give you the respect of genuine critique. Congratulations: You properly trained your dogs to bite and bark.
Anything less than a glowing review was proof of misogyny, in your paper-constructed world. No other explanation was allowed. When your religion sets yourself up as a genius, anyone who dares suggest otherwise is a heretic. You deserve the gold, your critics the pitchfork.
You had the gall to frame yourself as a martyr and an underdog, while bullying the laptop lapdog class to bow before your plastic sword. A plastic sword you painted with nail polish, while declaring yourself a modern Michelangelo.
What you then did with the plastic sword rendered the subtext textual. You fucked yourself; how subtle.
But seriously. It was disappointing that you believed your lies, and swallowed your sickly syrupy kombucha, mixed with the syrup of your fake blood. You pulled off the ultimate con: You fooled the ghost in the mirror. Even Narcissus laughs at you.
At your grave, I alone am Inez, who correctly chants that you’re a coward. A hack. Barely emptier than you were in life.
Everyone else leaves plastic flowers.
And that is your most perfect legacy. It leaves debris upon the environment but does not have the humility to decay.
I still can’t believe you had the gall to dump ME.
Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, plays, short stories, philosophical essays, creative nonfiction, paintings, drawings and photographs have been published both online and in print. Her novelette “Jillian, Formerly Known as Frog Girl” was published by Bottlecap Press. Other publications include Poetries in English, Well Read Magazine, New World Writing Quarterly, L’Esprit Literary Review, 10 By 10 Flash, Mania Magazine, Gothic Funk Press, The Bull Magazine, Rock Salt Journal, Ionosphere, Synchronized Chaos, Clockwise Cat, Dark Poets Club, Smokey Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, and Lowlife Lit Press. @alainaheidelberger on Instagram.