My fingers stained red, propylene glycol and red #40
Running down their faces,
I’ve made another batch of zombies.
I can do it in three minutes now:
Grey base, black eyeliner for scars, spray blood, liquid blood, black lipstick.
And I will open up myself, my fears.
For them, for students from the last decade.
For ****, burned alive in a trailer fire cooking meth.
For ****, pistol to the temple in boot camp.
****, ran into a tree this last weekend. Drunk. Still.
****, shotgun to the head 10 years ago, screaming about incest.
****, bikini, 4-wheeler, and Bud Natural Ice.
****, 104 mph on 101.
*** and ****, hitchhiking in the back of a tweaker’s truck.
*****, heartattack at 25. Just another way to say death by meth.
I doctor up my current students as zombies to talk about how much I fear their
I make them look dead now,
hoping I can protect them from themselves later.
Who knew a bottle of blood could aspire to so much?
And tomorrow. Day of the Dead.
Someone once told me they pray to their dead, a village of their deceased, every November 1st.
I can’t shake that thought.
My village is young and stupid and I loved them.
We could hold class, put on Prom, and I could do their make-up for Halloween.