I Hope This Is My Face When I Die

I hope this is my face when I die.

Like the other girls’
before they shut their eyes.

Sitting on the porcelain floor,
cold water pouring
over my cold blue body.

It is here,
but my eyes say otherwise.

They say that

I am sitting on top of a casket,
black masked,
tipped back, gin in hand,

sitting on top of love’s old ashes.
Sit next to me,
sit with me here,
a swig for you and more for fear.

Drink with me,
next to me here.

I laugh under black hair balls,
teasing your philosophy,
you make me giggle,

we jump off this old casket and
run, free through the wild,
free through the riddle,

through the bees,
and temptation, and value!

We run away from mascara
smears in water,

away from wrinkled finger prints
and bothered heels,
away from this face,

this face that I hope is mine when I die,
smeared with you,
in a forest,
on a casket,
running free, through the bees,
away from life.

7 thoughts on “I Hope This Is My Face When I Die

  1. i’m here with my coffee this early morning, and i’ve re-read this many times. it’s a great title! obviously one can see the escape, but it’s much more than that. it’s what you leave behind – your words to the paper, an escape in itself. but as i go back to the title the word “hope” conveys in a very subtle way a desire of placement in the literary world. so the sheet of paper is you with your words – hence “i hope this is my face when i die” and that makes sense to me. i think i’m on to it, but i could be wrong.

  2. I also really like this. It’s short (the lines) in a playful way but long with meaning. I get so much from this and like to come up with my own secret meanings. Thank you so much for sharing your poems!

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