After the last failed attempt,
I decided to tattoo her eulogy across my chest.

Better to be safe than wordless in front of a murder of mourners all bent on deciphering the meaning of “natural causes” at age 45.

I was never really good with a needle and small bits of viscera leaked from each letter.
When I finished, the heart was nearly drained to the size of a shriveled beet.
Then there was the scar tissue that grew over to construct the shiny pink tomb I now call home.

You say you want to reach out to me, but that will require a type of open heart surgery
and blood always makes you weak.

Whatever it will be next; razors, pills, or cigarettes, It doesn’t matter,
I have already located your place in the stars.

“Such cruel poems” she says “will surely bring on the death of me.”
“Whatever” there are much crueler things in life.


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