An autopsy would reveal that I
swallowed too many stars,

and every incision would look
like hideously-done cursive.

The busing inside and out
would be treated like ink blots,

and my congealing blood would
scream about how cold the room is.

My liver would float up like a dead fish
covered in alcohol, and bad rants,

and my eyes would roll sideways,
and make the med students think
that they were following them
around the sterile-white of the room,

or they’d direct them where to put
the next piece of the leftovers as
they dissect me like the post-suicidal
frog that I am…

Like a frog? They’d probably bathe me
in formaldehyde…

That’s found in cigarettes, ya know?

I feel like cancer anyway, so
I gave them a shot or two, or three.
They’ll probably find those too in my
lungs; pickled, puffy, and black
with helium soot that made me fly
when everyone around me refused
to hold me up any longer.