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.