hollow the bones and pinch the meat
roll back the skin and place your hands in the heat
this is what they meant when they said ‘sticky fingers’
this is the drop that wasn’t already in there
if a circle was made of straight lines, what would it look like?
hold your head underwater for as long as you can
but don’t forget to breathe.
When I die, I want singing at my funeral. Big, brash, joyous singing. I want harmonies everywhere, even if they don’t quite fit. I want hands lifted to the sky and bad dancing. I want speeches about all the times I fell over. I want photos of my worst drunk faces. I want everyone to stuff themselves on the food that made my guts hurt. I want people to make out at the reception, confused and scared and lonely but full of each others’ heartbeats. I want answers. I want a phone call to heaven to ask why I’m not there. I want the fragments that were me to reassemble enough to figure out what the fuck is going on. I want people to stage a revolution because I’m gone. I want to live. I want to die. I want to stop wanting so much and so little. I want to mean more. I want to fear less. I want to be braver. I want to be either richer or poorer or maybe both. I want to curl in a ball. I want to get through the night. I want hope. I want happiness. I want purpose. I want soul. I want singing at my funeral.