Your way, I’d be in the ground, earth packed tight like sand. No epitaph or eulogy, condolence card to family, though maybe a postscript blog post or FB message using movie references to say what you really think, all important words starred out, so that no-one but me knows. Except, in this scenario, I’m dead, grave stone instead of address. Saves on a stamp.

Don’t want to be burnt alive, buried surviving 6 days after, donated to medical science. You say, “How about Donor Cards?” but I can’t see anyone wanting my brain or bones or heart with you ghost-trapped in it.

You suggest, “Well there’s buried at sea,” but I don’t like this either, piranhas nipping at my eyelids, detaching retinas, the pathways of which are neuritis marred, a car in need of a clean it can’t have. “Piranhas don’t live in the sea,” is your lecture, proof academia’s in your blood at least as much as acting’s in mine, and I play the point out so you lecture me more, for I like that tone. I like every.

“I saw an exhibit once. Free tickets. Body parts in plastic. Maybe art’s your answer.” The off-centre speckles of my MRI would make a frame pop, spine lesions exotic, fat replaced so I do not decay. Made in an acetone bath. But I like Cryogenics best. Even if it’s just a head, glass box, meeting unwanted eyes in 2090.

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Not Quite Yet The Man You Need To Be (NaPoWriMo #2)

In unsafe houses, housing
twenty year friends who’d pierce
protective vests
for you
you tell her love
because vigilante trained
cult recruits
aren’t badly timed
but inconsequentiality,
men-led Bible study
breakfast youth group
at which you learn
wanking’s wrong.

The lesson her husband
teaches you
is commandment
achievement unlocked Xbox
game trade.

Until you scalp him
she’s his.

The Dentist

I’ve ignored every toothache I’ve had and every boyfriend telling me to find dentists, get doctors, gets told that I’ll fix myself and I carry on fixing, Googling, standing in the Health section in bookshops as long as it takes: until someone tells me to buy it. Never.

Soon, my sister will qualify and every question, lump, scratch, scar, eye flash or floater, will be hers to answer, dissect, know.

I used to wait for saviours, named in songs and words written by men or god-given depending on the historical accuracy of the people teaching or talking or sprawling. Now, I am my own. And when I buckle, when the pain’s a bone burner, I call in contacts of contacts of mine, never select anyone randomly, because that would add weight to serendipity, fatalism, creationism, love.

This won’t be the first time I’ve sipped blood, smelled blood, died.