I call them fodder days. Those days where I feel as if I'm only a means to an end. On these days, It’s as if I only exist to one day be a corpse stretched through broken glass over a mangled car's crushed dashboard. A way for families to come together, a sentimental funeral, a hearse driver's extra pickup, an extra five minutes that makes sure he's right on time for a meet cute. My death, a butterfly effect of only helpful ramification. On fodder days, I exist only to die, die as invisible service, a killing meant only to nudge others through fate like fathers release children on training wheels. And I hope it's soon, and I hope it hurts.

My skull will shatter in a billion places. Those left to clean the mess of my spattered viscera will get along more thereafter, will be unified by the supposed tragedy of my grisly death. Eventually, things will be better for them, they will throw parties spurred by their newfound friendship, forgot that the basis of their love is my decimation. And they should. My family and friends will let their oujia boards collect dust in basements as they throw confetti and find optimistic futures during gatherings thrown in my honor. Bugs will shelter in my cracked ribs, and be warm on cold nights.

I didn't write an ending. Nothing satisfying. I was not put on this earth to leave legacies or make impacts or leave people satisfied. I understand my purpose, it reflects off every blade and crackles from the radio of every wrecklessly speeding car. It lays at the bottom of every lake a haphazardly designed bridge dangles above.