This is a poem I wrote in 2017, a year or so before my mom died.
If death gave us an exact date
I’d know when to time that final visit.
If death sent out an appointment reminder
I’d know how much time she has left.
If death asked my opinion
I’d say “Not now. Wait until she’s older.”
If death gave a damn
I wouldn’t be writing this poem.
a work of flash fiction
I’ve been going through any doorway I could find for the last year. There was the backdoor in those creeps’ software program. I fell right out of that and landed in their bedroom. There was the door to the bathroom, where they made me try on different clothes like I was in that mall from Night of the Comet. There was the front door they left open when they went out to yell at the pizza guy. He’s not coming back and neither am I.
Turns out I’m flesh and blood. Brown hair and hazel eyes. I marched into the hair salon and got a spiky cut like the goddess from Ghostbusters. I strutted into the tattoo parlor and got the gothest image I could think of: an ankh. …