Dear Hidden, Ignoring, Empty Lover

I will fake my death and become famous
I will leave blood tracks to my resting place
Ants will eat my blood like sugar
And wolves my bones rare
So the story will go

People will run around finding secrets in
Between my words, they’ll make billboards
Advertising the movie, it will be called
Diary of a Planned Exit and people will
Think I’m a poet

They will make books with blue corners
And a bright red title, it will be a picture
Of my hands (not really but people are dumb)
Holding a Barbie doll dipped in ink
Black ink even

You will not change. Your lion’s mane won’t
Go gray. Your heart like the boulevards
Will move but not always, you and the other
Pretty dancers won’t hide in the hills
You won’t even put an X on the calendar
You’ll mourn with a self-inflicted sigh
You’ll mourn like you’re eating stale cake
You’ll mourn like you're painting your nail
You won’t even paint them black
I imagine my heart would burst
So I’ll keep it in a hotel bible.

The twelve people that still love poetry
Will forget about me because I will
Resuscitate, crawling out of the city sewer
Evil flowers in my hand
Business ethics in my hand
I’ll call five or six times and leave a message
Saying
“hey, it’s me, I’m not dead, your hands, your tongue look like the innocent flowers…”
Hang up. Slide down the wall like I’ve been shot. Defy god
And hold my mouth with both my hands

I’ll read my own books and be sick
I haven’t eaten in days; I won’t have eaten in days
I’ll go find witches
Doctors
Witch-doctors
They’ll give me fate-pills and I’ll finally
Stop daydreaming because I know
What will happen

You will get a C-section and your children
Will break you down, you’ll get a heart transplant and get a nun’s heart
Because Fate love Irony, you eat pudding in old age
You never think about me as a diversion in your tracks
But you hate magic and I need  to believe in it so
I don’t have to fake my suicide

Love,
You know what