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.

Haunted

Midnight visits with feeble jaws,
while my teeth grind on white
horror –
my head has awaken, my body
has not.

A house is clouded with
my ghosts. Beautiful,
disgusting!
Numbing my legs with
a chainsaw gaze, I am barely breathing
again.

Her pale hands reach out
to
my frozen plan. I am barren, dry of
thought, palpitating.

The daylight brings demons enough, but
I cannot
escape the night.
It comes as expected. Never without
ugly dread
and
cold sweats. Always.
Always
soaked with paralysis, drenched
with the past.