letters from a dead girl

The garden is covered with snow; everything
trimmed with now silver ivy instead of green
and even the bird-bath is clear, the sparrows
a frozen memory; a myth, almost.
Oh were they really here, what about me?

Will you remember that I wasn't always
this numb; this pale, this weak as poison
enters my bloodstream and fills my body
with foxglove-yellow, purple flowers, boy?
Will you remember a time when I wasn't gasping for
an answer to a question only the angels could hear?
I'm worried, as ridiculous as this sounds,
all things considered; the sight of a wound
blossoming on my side, under my left lung, the one
supposedly sheltering an eagle-heart,
capable of sacrifice.

Boy, I know it's ridiculous; stupid, even tragic
at a time like this, so fleeting; to be thinking
about appearances,
how everything looks from outside this
witch-house mirror.
But this is me; lying here, the very
spot where my mind went blank,
my senses dulled down forever.
And somehow, I ceased to exist
in the present-tense; can you explain that?

And “If I Die Young”; I used to sing
that song all the time in the car;
on my way to school, to work in that
old-fashioned malt-shop downtown
where all the old gals from the 80s
like to try on vintage clothing,
forgetting that they no longer fit
into skinny jeans; David Bowie
type rebellion and acidic makeup.
Now though, I have to laugh at
the irony, my little darling.
Who would've thought that those
lyrics would relate to us so well?
This underground-Hollywood
scene is a beautifully tragic one..

But “How could anything about
this moment ever be beautiful?
Girl, are you crazy?” you ask me,
your voice all choked-up; torn, not
sounding like your true self at all.
“I'm here; I'm holding you close against my chest.
I'm covering the wound with my hands;
but still, your body won't stop shaking,
turning white like beach-wood hidden in the sand.
How can anything be alright?”
Oh friend, I know what you mean..
Even though my vision is fleeting;
carousel-lights behind my eyelids,
swirling too fast to focus on, break out of
the darkness, I can feel every word
you're trying to illustrate so vividly.
But I still wouldn't change a thing..
There are worse ways to leave this world
than falling asleep in the circle of
your cedar-toned arms, boy.

“No, don't say that!” you whisper hoarsely.
“If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have
gotten into such an unfair match; a heated
struggle for power that doesn't mean anything.”
And sweeping unruly locks of
gingerbread-colored hair from my forehead,
you add shamelessly, friend:
“Nothing we do matters in the end.
Girl, I can't take away your pain.”
But maybe that's not the most important
thing, maybe we've already won.
“What do you mean, tiger-lily?”
But rough-diamond, I can't even begin
to tell you so please let me go.
“No,” you shake your head. “I don't want to.”
Boy, you've turned into a child.
Suddenly, you're so vulnerable.

But my silly dove, how many times have
I told you: “Stop flying so close to the steeples.
Don't you know they can pierce you?"
But still you never listened..
You were always flapping those silver wings,
never satisfied with a clear day's end.
Heaven was like a ladle of milk;
spilling over your bones,
making them grow strong, more stubborn.
Oh you were just as tall
as any summer-storm premmie hopes to be.

Yet, you wanted your life to mean more
than plastic trophies, stuffed animals won
for girls at carnivals who eventually broke your heart.
Well, take it from someone who's been there, who's now
on the outside, looking in; your legacy is not the last
thing you did wrong, it's not the first kiss we shared
or even the memory of my briar-rose blood
staining your favorite scarf.
No, friend; I was struck and against you, I fell but
that's okay because there are worse ways
to leave this world, I should know;
uglier deaths with poison, witches,
broomsticks and swords.
But I was lucky because you sent me away; all pure
like ribbon-snow, so quietly.
And now, don't blame yourself..
And now, don't let this year end
with beaded-ice tears stuck to your lashes; a ghost
hand-print on your car window.

You're doing our relationship;
our see-saw friendship, a disservice here
by shouldering the burden of
a dreary Saturday afternoon crime, tragic awakening.
You couldn't stop it so don't sit there
sobbing, saying nothing else matters
because you have a lot of people who
care and this isn't your swan-song.

It's mine; not yours, not your turn
to go and give yourself up to a western wind;
a mad angel's trickster arms, shaky
embrace on the wings of storybook dragons.
Oh this chorus is mine, boy.
I won't let anyone take it away
from me, not even you..
Not even the Coney Island
prince who I thought I'd go to prom with,
share memories of camping
trips; picnic scenes, phone
conversations, naked-teasing.

All that was sweet but the time
to say farewell and cast your golden
flowers into the sea, is here.