Would I cower with my head between my knees —
a convenient position for kissing your ass goodbye —
and pray to be dispatched humanely, even neatly,
so my dental records would not have to be sent from home
before they can identify me?

Or would I plead for the children
with their sweet exaggerations and milk teeth?
Take me, I would say. Take me.
I would die a martyr,

and my mother would never know:
just that morning I sat in the shower
with a shotgun between my teeth, praying
for a different kind of courage to carry me home.




Cimarron Burt is a poet and freelance writer pursuing her M.F.A. in southern Minnesota, where her content has been featured in newspapers, social media, and radio shows. She has performed for and with the brightest talents on the slam circuit, as well as presented research into the relationship between creativity and mental illness.

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