Convenience Marriage with Life

existentialists are giving me the finger
from their graves.

well-lit vault.
rigor mortis is on the house!

since Frankl kindly pointed out
that what I consider my biggest merit
lies in what I dismiss as my most unacceptable failures
every day, each stone-cold moment

when I pretend I’ve forgotten who I am
so much
that I really have. I know I’ve left myself
on the highway, high-maintenance roadkill

to make sure just in case I may someday
disgust you
or in case you may someday
distrust me
it won’t be my fault again.

& I think I’m the kind of girl
people will lie about at the funeral.
I will sound prettier
than what was inside me …

sunny-side up love
gone stale.

Shaky hands
gone steady.
Too steady to be
alive.

Am I really beautiful
when I strip of myself
and pretend I forget
my name?

I swear
I had it all figured out
by the time I was fifteen

but now … all I feel free
to give you, sweetheart,
is rigor mortis on the house
and the promise to play by the rules
like dead people do
when they claim they won’t make a move
on you

even if I don’t want to grow old
in such good manners

that people will have to lie at my funeral
and not even realize it.