I can organize my cuts and burns
by alphabetical order, day of the week, last year this year.
I can recite the reasons why I love them more than
any man, any shirttail brushing inside
my inner thigh:

they never leave. My blades never miss,
I never have to miss my blades when they leave.

I heard the story of a man who was murdered, his wife abused
and still he did not leave
he stayed like a scar
because he rose again the moment someone else
touched her skin, blew up as if full with gasoline.
I watched him fly above the city,
dropping death on those who already had their hands on it
wrung it out of beautiful men and women.

I want to do that so badly,
**** myself cell by cell, scrape the skin off
flake by flake. I want to
be dead but not know it yet. Sail in the air as ashes.