Lying at a funeral

When I let everyone know

I would be going on this mission past Mars,

I knew there was no coming home.

I knew it was the last time I would see anyone.

I knew it would be the last time 

I smelled someone,

or felt their skin touch mine,

hear a laugh,

felt lips press against my own.

But,

I didn’t tell anyone that.

What I told them was

how great an adventure it would be,

how I imagined explorers of days gone by must have felt.

While I knew there was a degree of naïveté to it all

—we all knew that—

it was harder to know I lied to everyone.

It’s hard to know I lied about being scared.

It’s hard to know the things I wanted to say,

wanted to tell everyone.

It’s hard to carry with me that I lied about it all

and there’s no way to change it.

When the booster jets fired,

I watched everyone die.

I watched them blink out in the distance

and they became memories.

I lied on their deathbeds.

I lied so much the lie became truth.

And now,

here I am

a mess of skin and bones in a metal ball

sending what will probably end up being

useless

information

back to a planet I left behind

and to whom I can never apologize.