By Breannah Holton
The time for mourning ended five minutes ago,
I have on a petticoat and a smile.
I cannot afford rent this month, so I take my things, leave the gas stove on and light a candle as prayer.
The boy says he hates my body hair, but I do not shave, instead I skin nine rodents and nail their fur to his wall.
I am whistled at from a car, so I make noise so loud they can only hear ringing now.
My boss makes a joke I cannot stop laughing at, he’s the one that ends up in stitches.
My therapist calls this lashing out.
A friend of a friend criticises the way I walk in a dress, I rip the hem and sew it together with her hair.
My therapist says I need to journal.
So, I author an acrostic poem with every foul word that fits, fold it up and put it in the pocket of the person texting at the funeral.
I do this so that when I die my eulogy will be nothing more than sneer and spit on my grave.
My will will be that I acted as I pleased.