the first time i died, it was horrible.
i didn't even look cute.
i hadn't showered in days,
my hair was a greasy mop upon my head,
bruises and bloody cuts spotted my legs,
straggley hairs formed knots in my pits,
and my breath reaked of a sleazy sailor.
my fatality was an empty one.
i was turning on the water to take a shower,
or maybe i going to take a warm bubble bath......there are some facts of my parting
that still throw me for a loop.
silly me, i forgot the curling iron was on.
(i was going through a phase of setting my hair in very tight curls;
maybe i was trying to immulate my grandmother, she always
looked liked a classy muriel.)
clumsy me, my tiny ankle got wrapped in the cord.
unstable me, i splashed in the running water.
tiny currents of electricity danced through my body as i was taken over by
the waves of an indoor sea.
it hurt so bad.
i heard the doctors say i broke my back.
my ears and my nose and my mouth were running with blood.
i saw the position, color and status of my death:
crooked, naked, green, bloody and lifeless.
i could have gone in such a fashionable way.
this is how i picture my next death: lipstick, a purple dress, black high heels, a handsome man on my shoulder, and a screwdriver resting on a coaster next to me.
shaved pits, no bruises, no cuts, clean hair, and the breath of a lady.
i'm attending a fancy, late twenty-something party with my lover,
and i choke on a dick...NO, not a dick, not a dick.
and i overdose on some coke...NO, not some coke, not some coke.
and i slit my wrists when i walk in on my lover fucking the early twenty-something waitress...NO, no fucking, no slitting wrists.
i can't plan my next departure.
that's like planning my next birth, which is an entirely different story.