An Instruction Manual For The Living

By Melissa M. Sharp

Set my grief aside, 

And pull the rifle to my friend’s head. 

Fire out bullets made of seeds that sprouted forget-me-nots,

Drip and delight from the dying eyes. 

Pick them off,

Allow the stem to break,

Let the petals squash.

Watch in perverted hunger at the blood on my fingertips,

See how it mixes with the baby blue?

By accident.

Always by accident. 

It has to be.

Stick them to my walls,

Next to my jars of emotions that I never dare open.

God, their screams are revolting! 

I am glad they are muffled in the silent glass. 

Until they shake, 

And threaten to fall off my cabinets. 

Sometimes they do. 

By God, they do. 

But never my jar of grief.

Oh, it is well behaved and never dares to move.

It is the only one that I wish would.

Why am I the keeper of my grief? 

It would be so lovely to pass it on to someone else.

Someone deserving. 

Someone who aches dearer than I. 

Alas, my trophy wall is what I yearn to see,

When humanity feels like an old fable,

From my childhood dining room table.

When some emotions had yet to be discovered. 

And some feelings had yet to be stolen. 

By Melissa M. Sharp