Today is the day I determine how I plan to die:

        I will lay in a field,
        With flowers in my hair
         And gold coins on my eyes.
        He will stand over my corpse,
        his hands flaying helplessly
        to save my naked soul
        (but he cannot breathe
        Life into a body's that is
        Already cold.)

           I want children to pick out my teeth and
        Then plant them in their backyards;
           So when the luscious fruit
           Is picked by their tender hands
           Tears can fall for their dead muse
        (making my insides taste even better)


        They shall be blessed
        With the gift of metaphors
        And they shall be hated.

     The ground shall attack them
     As they speak of "anti-love"
     Their feet will grow weary of
     Constant thorns
     And heavy thoughts

                (They'll give up.)

My legacy will survive in
        His hands.

My insides were scraped,
Molded, and shaped
Into words on the pages,
And my eyes watched
In silent horror (silent pleasure)
As the fire devoured emotional
Responses, (hopes) to the
Fabrication of reality you made
Me wear.

Grey dreams, papery lies
That streaked the pages of my hands.
Burnt poetry is the best kind
(Burnt memories are the best kind)


The tapping at my door
Keeps waking me up
And it isn't a raven
Asking me about some
Eleanor.
No, it is the urn, full
Of ash and imaginings
It rattles with displeasure;
I shall let it go.

Heavy, but light in my arms,
Taking the cinders to the sea
(Finally, I'd let you free.)
Only to have oxygen transform
And disfigure ash into butterflies;
They attacked ruthlessly, at my face
With kisses that brought back memories.

I blew out my wish
"Let this be my last" And
Suddenly, there was nothing
Just the results of paper and
Calefaction.

On her face are the lines
The new and old
That he draws across
Hoping he'll make her
Breathe.