I’m About As Sorry For Killing Myself As You Are For Telling Me To

by Khalypso

come to my wake

dressed sharp as a lemon rind

the trimmings of a hollow season’s harvest

scattered on the floorboards and

crackling like the heartbeat

you’re wailing to hear,

cauterizing your tear ducts and setting

whatever dance-crazed soul upon you

that will bend your toes in the way of

the light. praise my coffin. praise your

gilded sorrow. praise the burn i swallowed

and offered you, generous, like the good

blood brother and spook i am. those who

merely pretended to know me will say

do not weep.

the real ones though, they’ll wring tie-dye

from their veiled cheeks and beat their chests

with thread, sepia, and tarred vinegar. take

us to heart, they will all sob, feeling too late

and too unworthy to do anything

but hold each other close and try

to find my laugh in the glistening peaks

of a hand tremor, or a shifty eye, or a quaking

voice. we see you, we finally see you,

come back! all my niggas will scream.

and thus, spitefully, i will release this tension

to a meadow of hewn, frothing cacti—

the apocalypse juice still warm and

sticky on the lips of anyone who has lately

kissed the dessicated earth and fell

upon her, bare and searching

for new ways to make her hum.

what i’m saying is i’m not coming

back. and i hope that hurts.