If I wake tomorrow,
and the sadness still lives inside these weary bones,
I will scream until my throat turns to blood.
I will take this throbbing skin by its clothespins
and I will shake it out,
freeing it of its dust.
If I make it to tomorrow,
I will swallow enough blood to save
the both of us,
I will journey miles of tall, emerald green grass
and I will reach inside this skin,
brushing my neosporn fingertips along what is raw and heaving,
like a harp,
serenading my ache, awakening my love.
I will unbuckle this heart and
surrender to the medicine,
the Prozac, the Klonopin.
I will make my mother proud.
But there is a catch.
I am an artist and
if I cannot turn this suffering to beauty,
I might as well not suffer at all.
So please stay on the line…
if I do not make it to tomorrow,
let my pain fade with the rain.
Remember me in fog,
in red hot, dancing flames.
Allow my memory to burn your throat
like your first shot of vodka.
Do as I would do,
spit cherry pits at the whistling boys,
Swallow the lock in your throat,
rid the acid from your lungs.
Remember that this life is meant to be lived loudly or not at all.
You are not a spark,
you’re the Great Chicago Fire
and you could devour cities with the power hidden inside your palms.