Miss Martyr
Once upon a time there was a Jack
Hair falls out like autumn leaves.
Medicine cabinet hasn’t been touched since the mirror was smashed.
Blood is wiped away along with the rest of what gets coughed up, no distinction made.
Dreams like dead seeds. Dusty, cold and buried.
Eyes like titanic ships. Large, watery and sunken.
Iceberg after iceberg.
Once upon a time there was a Jack.
Now there’s jack shit.
Apart from Mr. Chet Baker.
Crooning away from inside the antique vinyl player.
Perhaps he'll attend my Cool Jazz wake.
Life’s a terminal disease.
Doctors gave me 4 months
Too long.
I pull a leather jacket over my blood-speckled nightgown and stumble outside.
I float towards the bridge that people like to jump from.
Some people use ropes.
They tie them around their necks.
I vault the low railing and lean out over the solid black waves.
I leave the decision to let go up to involuntary muscle movements.
My hands go numb from vicious cold.
Suspended only by invisible forces of fate.
I let the emotions course through me until my eyes roll upwards and cross.
Beyond the corner of my vision, I see a flash.
I swivel my head like an animatronic owl running out of battery.
An angel.
Her many arms clasp around me.
“Why?” I ask her.
“So that others can see your struggle and know they’re not alone”
We tumble forward and shatter into gold dust across the roiling black slate.
