Dying doesn’t scare me, you lied.
Here’s how it works: push back the chair, grab your keys and leave.
To prove your point, you did just that, killing the conversation
with a door slam so decisive, nobody could properly open or shut
that thing again, and it was perfect, just perfect that my glass was empty,
Billie Holliday was killing it: “I’ve been down so long, down don’t worry me.”
and let everyone know how much better she was at singing or even talking
about blues than anyone else.
There’s too much regret in this room.
As I’m writing this, I decide to burn it, in solidarity with your cremation,
I'm alive. Unbelievably, you are not. Well, maybe you are somewhere
laughing, please, be laughing at us.
Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle, has been published numerous places, including the Rye Whiskey Review, Off The Coast Literary Journal, and the American Journal of Poetry.
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