If I’m to be remembered,

I have to come up with

the next best thing.

I slam my face into the

keyboard and win the

Pulitzer Prize.

A band-aid’s on my chin

because I wrote something

that hurt too much.

An ardent fan gets tattoos

of my bruises on his face.

So dedicated.

In poetry classes they’ll try

hitting their heads on keys

to imitate me.

There’ll be anthologies of all

my genius and a portrait of

my broken nose.

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There’s a noose in the corner of my room.

And it drifts in the drafts.

A looped shadow dances on the walls.

Every once in a while, I see if it fits,

coarse rope scratches pink my porcelain neck.

I don’t.

I pull it off, just knowing I could.

Just in case I need to rely on my knowledge someday.

And I slide into bed turning my back away.

I can’t see it but I can feel it

sway. Sway. Sway…

Words can’t hurt you.

Really?

The test results came back positive.

You’d be pretty if you lost weight.

We did everything we could.

I just don’t feel that way.

We need to talk.

It was a boy.

We regret to inform you…

I’m sorry, I can’t do this.

Goodbye.