Bury my phone under the maple tree.
Do not unlock it.
Let the passwords rot my teeth.
Let the wind lift the dirt in small spirals above it
so anyone passing by feels the urge to walk faster.
Keep the bracelets.
Keep the letters in the wrong order.
Let my poems splinter across languages
until no one can tell what happened first.
They will plant my voice in the garden
and water it with salt,
never admitting they were the ones
who taught me to bite.
They will leave flowers at the door
and pretend they never nailed it shut.
They will drop my name in the brown-thick lake
and watch the fish stop swimming,
like an old car battery, or a dead dog,
and it will feel like both,
depending on the sun.
They will drag my words ashore, gut them for parts.
They will build a church from my mouth,
hang my jawbone above the altar,
and pray it never speaks again.
I will kneel with them,
smiling with my empty mouth.
They will say the work was too sharp,
the girl inside it dangerous,
and never admit they handed her the knife.
They will polish the handle,
wrap it in velvet,
and wonder why she carried it everywhere,
as if it wasn’t still dripping.
