by Sarah Bridgins
I never thought that falling asleep
would feel like dying
but here we are.
I don’t know what death feels like, but I
have watched someone die
and I can’t imagine it’s that different.
Die, die, die
It’s barely a word anymore, just a sound
like my smoke alarm that goes off
for no reason.
When my father dies he wants his ashes
shot out of a cannon like Hunter S.Thompson.
Don’t get concerned if I spend
my nights curled up like a hamster
dreaming of dead relatives.
If I get upset, smother me
with your body
your whole hard self
until I wake up gasping.
If you get upset I will
peel off my fingerprints,
and hand them to you
one by one
like tiny wings.
Sarah Bridgins is a writer and performer living in Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in Monkeybicycle, Sink Review, InDigest, Thrush, Two Serious Ladies, and NAP, among other journals. You can find more of her work at www.sarahbridgins.blogspot.com.