Imagine our life as an etch-a-sketch,
how simple it would be to erase
and start over
just shake that shit off our mental screen
What a splendor it would be for the tormented
Anne Heche to shake away those images
of the perversions of her father on her
How him contracting AIDS spoke to his inner demons
how her curiosity and love (yes love)
of him, may have pushed her into Ellen's arms for a while
How her brother found a tree,
to wrap his car around,
perhaps the shame too great to bear.
How her crazy, couldn't stop with drugs,
or alcohol, or sex ... or work (she had over 40 films to her credit)
nor would her book "Call me Crazy" spell relief.
Blame the fentynal laced coke,
blame the paparazzi,
blame the father, swine
Mostly the father, that fucker.
A life so smothered with shame, guilt, hate, confusion
she raced her Mini-Cooper full speed to nowhere,
into a house,
unable to shake the etch-a-sketch board clean
Did she think, smoldering in her car
'Oh, great I survived' this as a dreamscape
Only to have the fire department, put out the structure fire
as she smoldered and time ticked on ...
did she hope this is it, or just another bad dream
As they took her cloaked, covered and charred body
to the Ambulance
she sat up, like a zombie apocolypse
showing "life" , one last time as if to say "I'm free!"
The tortured life of a kamikaze pilot. R.I.P. Anne Heche