so if you want to kill yourself remember that i love you

THIS WORLD IS KILLING MY FRIENDS
AND I AM FURIOUS
AND SAD.

fly high mutiny-kelsey-byrd-brainz.
another witch, another radical queer, another edge-walking boundary-defying larger-than-life whirlwind,
the third suicide of a real amazing freak friend i've seen this year,
metamour, meta-metamour,
and that's just with my eyes;
i'm wearing blinders of forest to refocus,
block out some of the horror of civ/the world/our culture/...

STOP KILLING MY FRIENDS
STOP KILLING MY FRIENDS
STOP KILLING MY FRIENDS

i'm less interested in dying than i used to be
doing this dance: facing confronting death without fear,
doesn't mean i want to die
or that it feels "okay" to see my friends killed by the world.

and what is it, what is to be done,
when i find myself wishing that facebook
had a button, a "group," a "subcategory,"
for "dead friends"
so at least i would KNOW
somehow an identity category that could be changed with a public consensus of ten or a thousand or a measure of knowing beloveds
from "alive" to "dead"
(we get to say we're alive and it's our friends who verify we've died?
is that right?)

who's to say,
who's to say,
who speaks the names of the unnamed dead
where will we build their altars
what will happen to our bodies

kimya and i agree--"don't ever put this body in a casket"
maybe we could all dive into morbidity and celebration for some time
as we are young and beautiful and vibrantly alive
and think about what we'd want to happen if we died
it's on page 9 of my journal--
if i had a funeral i'd want everyone to be invited,
i'd want people to play games,
i'd like for people to touch each other a lot,
i'd like for the people who weren't sure if they were supposed to be there
to be right in the middle of the circle,
i'd like for z and fox and tate and tmo and lelz and stam to collaborate on the playlist,
i'd like people to tell stories about me and also about my mistakes,
i'd like everyone who i made out with or was lovers with to sit together,
i'd like the food to be great,
i'd like for people to decide to do brave or weird or adventurous or nasty things after the funeral,
i'd like for everyone to really feel great about being alive,
and i'd like to become a tree.

or not, you know. we've made this many narrow escapes.
of course we would have scratches from our run from the capitalist death-machine.
how much time does the mouse spend thinking about its predators,
about where it wants to die,
such things?
does this line of thought jive with living in the fullest,
brightest and darkest,
present-est,
crafted and accidental,
most that-which-you-desire
way?

well,
what now?