March 5, 2017

Dear Kurt Cobain,

I don’t like your music, but I listen to it still.
I listen to your voice, to your words in unsuccessful attempts of knowing what exactly killed you.
It’s like you detonated from all the sadness inside you. Like all the love people gave you wasn’t enough to overwhelm the self loathe, self inadequacy. Frances wasn’t a reason good enough for you to stay. Courtney wasn’t.

You know what’s more scary, Kurt? That I feel it too. I understand it. I understand it enough that it’s breaking my heart. The understanding sits tight in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I see your 8 year old self, hating the world already because your parents broke your tender heart, along with their marriage.
I feel your 18 year old self, sleeping in the waiting room of the hospital you were born in. Helpless but strong. So strong. Asking yourself to not crack. (And you never did crack, Kurt. You exploded.)
I feel you at 27, writing your suicide letter to Boddah, the only person you thought would understand your reasons. I see you scribbling your illegible handwriting one last time remembering how you had to modify the songs while singing because you couldn’t understand your own handwriting. (Is that what happened every time you went on the stage too? You couldn’t recognize the person the crowds went manic for?) I see the finality of your decision as you strike the pen in the flower vase near you, through your letter. Before you put the shotgun in your mouth and pulled the trigger.
I see you hating yourself for not loving your life. I see the Courtney you loved, looking beautiful on your wedding. With a cigarette in her hand. I feel your heart breaking in my chest Kurt.

I know you hated all humans in general and loved people too much. I know the world broke your heart too many times but you broke so many more Kurt. You decided to burn out but can you see it now? You’re still burning.

I wish I could just talk to you once. I want to know what exactly killed you, was it something specific? Or was it the weight of it all together? I want to walk up to you and shake you by the shoulders, I want to fucking scream this in your ear- I understand your sadness. I understand the pain. And I also understand how people just made money out of your sadness (And I fucking hate them for it). I understand that the only thing that helped was being taken away. I understand how it all bred inside you and how you became too much for your own self. I understand how no amount of money or love or anything else could save you. I understand, and this understanding is killing me.

Blithesome
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