Snip the blood from my hair,
Shave the skin from my nose,
For I yearn to look pretty
Within this infamous obituary.
Ease mothballs among my clothes,
Company for the many memories that host
Between their forgetful folds.
May every side possess an ache like this
Is what I kneel and pray each day,
For it's all about knowing when and where to look,
And then knowing precisely when to look away.
Seen enough, so see no more!
Not your skin thin concern,
Or the cracked hole of that door.
I watch as you run from the hurt.
I watch as you run back to her.
So, I promise to bleed if it's deep,
But only if you promise to promise me
That for my eternal obituary,
The one that my mother will probably read,
Cut out and paste in a book for posterity,
Promise you'll paint me pretty with lies.
Pretty please, promise to pretty me
Beneath the ugly truth I so desperately despise.
FIRE 22, p 34; Lora Bishop