poem, not a memoir

dearest, get my fur coat and gloves
i should like to go out and soak my head in soup.
instead i hammer it on mailboxes stinking of elegies;
you’re dancing under the candy
floss sky in a white dress,
my eyes are stitched with black satin.
go on, keep twirling like your footsteps are a song,
i’ll lay by the ocean and burden the sand
with polaroids of sadness,
i’ll hide my words between falling waves
and the village will watch me drown.
i keep poking my chest with a splinter,
it talks back like a corpse;
hold on, don’t go back just yet;
have a little tea,
i shall take the funeral to another room.

will you read out this poem at the church next sunday,
or the next, whichever isn’t followed by another.
remember, remember don’t begin to sculpt my face with these
wrinkled words,
they’re stuck in catacombs of desperation.
think fireworks in the sky, but ash, yes; think ash,
but unholy, rosaries but blasphemous;
think poem, not a memoir;
memoirs bite their tongues in front of sanity,
i sit inside a glass dress and fall on the floor;
i’m wearing a chandelier darling, it won’t fall on my head now;
they’d write a damn memoir about
princesses buried under broken chandeliers.
remember, please remember-
poem, not a memoir-
don’t you understand,
don’t let them hang me in an antique museum of sad girls;
i don’t want to be friends with the janitor and ophelia’s history.
just mutter a poem, and wash over the clotted blood.


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