IconElegies

They still fear me, even though I'm gone. They wonder what I knew, and made my own decisions about my life. Jeffrey Epstein is still a name. And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, even though I'm gone. Prison wasn't fun, why would I stay there, I belonged in glory, not misery. A poet's note. Jeffrey Epstein, who knew the rich and famous, is still the news of the day years after his death.  

I was cursed. That's how it had to be. Cursed in life, cursed in death. My desire to die, that's what finally got me. No one else would have stuck my head in the gas oven. I knew I was a genius, I knew I was great. I just wouldn't be there to see it for myself. My desire to die won. Maybe it was meant to be this way. Everything in life was either too much or too little for me. Poet´s note. Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Today she's a classic poet.    

That's how it happened. The football season was over. I lived a long time. Too long. Even a young wife wasn't enough to keep me alive. I've already done everything I wanted to. And I dared. This wasn't fun anymore. I wasn't fun. I decided my fate, like always. It was easy, it didn't hurt. And you don't shoot just anyone into the sky with a cannon. Poet's Note. Hunter S. Thompson was the father of gonzo journalism

I am one of the few who have hanged themselves after they were dead, and whose brains have been missing. They could hardly contain their emotions  when they let them examine the brains of our terrorists, like the Nazis did back in the day. They wanted to know why we became violent. Why do we even have to ask that? They would have looked around. And they would know why a star journalist became a terrorist. Poet´s note. Ulrike Meinhof was a RAF-terrorist.

I was the girl next door, who fell in love with a monster, to me he was God. I loved a man, whom the world hated, whom the world loved, God and the Devil. To me he was Him. I got him for myself, just a moment before we died, but death, how indifferent in love. He wanted me to run away, to stay alive, for me there was no life without him. I stayed. He was finally mine. I got him for myself in death. Isn't that what love is supposed to be like? Poets note. Eva Braun was Adolf Hitlers secret girlfriend 

Your name was Evelyn McHale. You were an ordinary American woman. I don't want to be your wife, you wrote in your suicide note, and asked that your body be destroyed without a grave. Then you made your final decision. It wasn't your life that made you famous, but your death. You didn't necessarily want this, but you didn't know it anymore. It was your death that made you famous, after falling  from the observation deck of the Empire State Building. That was your last sight. Your beautiful body survived its last mission and the photographer captured the flawless beauty of your face. That was it. A beautiful death, the newspaper said.