What if they sew me into a suit. Pearls. What if they polish the
freckles from my skin or plump my lips or blot my cheeks with
rouge. What if they waste their good money on satin. Or brass. Or
deadbolts. What if I wish my organs into Petri dishes. Bones to
science. Teeth to a quieter mouth. What if they lie (such a good
girl) (always kind) (so full of light)
. What if I don’t want their words.
Just quiet. Just a long dark. Deep as the second sea. I think when I
am done, I will grow my hair and a fishtail. I’ll learn to sing.

— Jeanann Verlee, Irrational Musings on Suicide,” published in Winter Tangerine


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