where the writers are
Hopes for a bottle of blood

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

Self-destruction.

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.