To the One Who Left Too Early

You Were Allowed to Stay.

Kurt,

You left before the world could love you right.
And now we’re the ones choking on what you didn’t say out loud.

We don’t talk about that part.
How you whispered your goodbye in ink
and we didn’t read it until it was too late to answer.

You thought we were cheering.
But we were begging.
For you to stay.
For one more show.
For one more minute of your heartbeat in the room.

I’ve listened to My My, Hey Hey more times than I’ll admit.
Not for the melody.
For the mirror.

For the line I still can’t say out loud without shaking.

It’s better to burn out than to fade away.

You believed it.
So have I.

I watched that MTV Unplugged set again.
The Man Who Sold the World.
You covered it like you were confessing to yourself.

And I wonder.

Did you believe you’d already left.
That someone else had taken your place.
That the Kurt on stage was just a ghost in Converse.

That’s how you looked.

Like a man mid exit.
Half here. Half gone.
Already slipping through the cracks in his own voice.

After every song you looked down.
Like you were apologizing for being alive.
Like you didn’t think your voice was enough.

When it was the only reason some of us didn’t fucking leave too.

You didn’t have to be a god.
You didn’t have to martyr yourself in front of millions.

You were allowed to walk off stage.
To fall apart.
To not explain.
To just be.

Frances is older now.
And every time she smiles the world sees you.

Every birthday she blows out candles
without your hands lighting the match,
we all feel the silence you left behind.

You thought she’d be better off.
But she didn’t need peace.
She needed you.

Groggy. Quiet. Messy. Present.

She didn’t need Nirvana.
She needed her dad.

You didn’t die because you didn’t care.
You died because you cared so much
it hollowed you out from the inside.

You carried the weight of everyone’s salvation on your back.
No one told you that you could set it down.

The rest of us wear normal like it fits.
Walk through days like the cracks don’t show.

But they do.
They always do.

You weren’t too much.
You were what’s left after the world takes and takes
and still reaches for your ribs.

And god.

You’d hate what the world has become.

The commodified pain.
The endless noise dressed up as connection.
The way they turned even grief into content.

They’d package your silence into soundbites.
Your death into a documentary deal.

Maybe that’s why this still hurts.

Because the world you were trying to escape
only got louder.

You didn’t have to go.

But I wish you stayed.

For Frances.
For yourself.
For the kids who still scream into pillows
and hope someone hears it through the drywall.

My my, hey hey.

You’re gone.

But it’s not over.

Not for us.

We’re still sitting in the dark,
hands over our hearts,
waiting for the lights
to come back on.

Kurt’s letter

"To Boddah,"

Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.

All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with really writing... for too many years now.

I feel guilty beyond words about these things. For example when we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins, it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love and relish in the love and adoration from the crowd, which is something I totally admire and envy.

The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun.

Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do, God, believe me, I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child.

On our last three tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get out of the frustration, the guilt, and empathy I have for everybody.

There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little sensitive unappreciative Pisces, Jesus man!

Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!

I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be. Full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.

I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven I've become hateful toward all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along and have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.

Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody, baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

Peace, love, empathy,
Kurt Cobain

Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar.
Please keep going, Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.