It is September, a month since then
and you say my mother would do well to lock me
in a cushion-lined room and hide
my nail file, my scissors and even
my hair pins.
You think I’m like the girl
in a movie you saw. I haven’t seen it
but I am nothing like her, I’m sure.
You can try to kill me if I’m wrong.
She liked Near Death Experiences,
I don’t even know the term.
Death, I tell you, is never near.
It is always in your face.
There’s blood, there’s gore,
there are lolling heads and purple
bruises on the neck, the face.
Eyes pushed out to take in the world
and the innocence of those who see
the hanging man, all in flash.
The ones who die don’t see the bus that hits them.
Death leaves a trace
I only leave nailpolish stains.
I do not wish to die so soon.
The cushioned room will have to be locked
without me, and I’ll keep
my hairpins, thank you.