I accepted this position initially because I believed it came with the very best insurance plan. How could I fall to my death from the ground floor? Over the years, however, I’ve gotten increasingly familiar with the fine print of the benefits. Turns out, there are no benefits when the co-pay is your life.

I understand it’s customary to give two weeks’ notice, but I’ve only got two minutes, and in those minutes I will: 1) Fire my inner critic, or at least demote it to part time. 2) Assure my passions have the tools they need to unionize with my actions. 3) Sit naked on the photocopy machine so there are one hundred copies of my ass to kiss when I’m gone.

Though I suspect it won’t bode well for acquiring a positive referral letter, it’s important I state that I’m unwilling to train a replacement in this position. It is my suggestion that the job be eliminated altogether and that no future person take on the task.

If I can aid in the transition, please let me know.

Sincerely,

__________________________

EVERY TIME I EVER SAID I WANT TO DIE

—I meant I am willing to do anything to live.

Even leave this world forever.

Even build a new home atop a nebula, stick a straw

into a buried lake on Mars, get tipsy on anti-gravity

and invent new constellations walking the lines

between undiscovered stars.

When god pulls me over and asks,

Can you touch your nose? I could say,

What nose?

I’d be bodiless, a shadow in reverse,

a patch of light made by the darkness

I escaped.

The psychology manuals say no one really wants

to die. They want relief. They believe they will never

find it in this world. That belief could be right.

Or wrong.

One would have to stay to find out.

Friend, if you stay, at least we will be

together, and I have an extra straw.

I could show you where the lakes on this planet

are buried. How you do not need light-years

to reach them. The dark years work too.

Sometimes better. Sometimes grief

is the fastest route to truth.

In addition to the straw,

I also have a slingshot that fires rock

bottoms directly at the sun until change

spills from its golden pockets—

that’s how I got my hands on this

summer afternoon. We can do anything

with it. Sunbathe or scream or forgive ourselves

everything, most especially the thread we could not

convince to close our wounds.

If your wounds are still open, trust

they are doors to an answer,

and walk through.

What if we don’t have to be healed

to be whole? There are holes in every inch

of the fabric that makes me who I am,

but pull the string on my back

and I’ll say I LOVE YOU and mean it

whenever you want.

Come flood my home

with your eyes. I read that people scream

when they are in pain because screaming