A Prayer

Near every day
a war I lose

Closest to a truce –
a finish line,
if you will –
so came new enemies

Tired of fighting,
instead I prayed:

May I lose my life
before my teeth
May my grave be marked
not by porcelain
May the funerary makeup
be flawed for something
other than a scarlet lattice,
the white of my eyes replaced –
strands of undigested food,
my lips painted frosting blue
May death be easier than life
spent bent over my fingers clawing
deep and then deeper
along the inside of my throat –

trying to find the sound of a
girl worth saving and
failing, always failing

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