Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Stab me in the chest
and I’ll survive
because that’s what I do.
Don’t try to save me.
I’m through with anger,
ready to sacrifice.
Sometimes there’s no cure
for the harm between us.
She turns to vengeance.
He turns to hope.
Still in love.
Still devastated by love.
There’s no cure.
Maybe nothing
left to cure.
For the first time
she knows she
must be alone.
Walk away,
bleeding.
Don’t follow.
Finally, he turns.
She moves on.
The only way it can go.
On Friday, I’ll die.
Before prom.
Before my poems are published
or even read.
Don’t know how or why,
but I do know when.
On Friday, I’ll die.
I don’t want to leave life.
I want to graduate,
hike across the country,
become an aunt.
I want to dance to something
loud and drummy.
I want my best friend
to be more.
Much more.
But it won’t happen,
because on Friday, I’ll die.
Don’t know how.
Don’t know why.
No one believes me, but I know.
In my bed, I write.
In my bed, I say goodbye.
In my bed, I feel safe.
But come Friday,
I’ll die.
* * *
Seeing her for the first time
in the ground,
name etched in stone above,
makes me feel small.
Tracing the letters of her name
with my fingers
spells out the emptiness
of my life without her.
the middle of a couch
seems miles from each end
when only one body
depresses its softness
* * *
Remember how you left her
on the floor,
dead,
blood on your face,
already seeking revenge?
No one come to greet
the killer in me.
What would they say,
Hi, thanks for not being evil?
My sin is deep
and no one wants me,
despite attempts
to reconcile.
Give me to the enemy
to satisfy my debts.
Let him draw the map
of death upon my belly.
Melodramatic much?
Get over yourself.
You’re hurt, not alone.
Friends have forgiving hearts.
Friends don’t leave.
They’re here, just behind the curtain.
If healing is possible, you’ll do it together.