wrist
I have thought of killing myself for you.
I have thought
of coming to your house, pale and lifeless,
and knocking at your door, the blood
from my wrist a leash that ties me
to where I died and where I want to die.
You will talk to me then, talk to me
out of novelty of having
a dead man sit across you in your living room.
I will be embarrassed by the blood, by the mess
I am making of your house.
I will explain the situation: “You see, I…” I will be
Embarrassed by my own death. By this suicide
For you.
But then
I think you are not
twisted enough to sleep with a dead man.
I will run, running low to the ground, run back
scooping up into my body what I spilled
in your name, run back with my
blood caked with dirt and asphalt and dog shite,
run with my dirty blood running back again all
through my veins like the night around me
and I will spew this love out of me
Like the kidneys I have become because of
my life and my death and my love for you.