I’ve died at least one thousand deaths.
A girl warrior with the foundation of a fighter,
I leap slash onto every mountain,
I sneak crash onto every mole hill,
I sing ring out a battle cry and off I go
Into the war on the back of my steed,
Firing big guns into a cloud of enemy smoke.
And when I run out of bullets,
I fight with my silver blade,
And when my blade goes dull,
I fight with my secret dagger,
And when my dagger flies into the cloud,
I fight bare with my fists and feet,
And I don’t stop until my knuckles turn raw red,
And my feet swell into concrete clubs,
And my fingers break off my hand entirely,
And my brain drops out a giant bullet hole,
And I’m dead.
And the battle is over.
The enemy marches triumphant and I watch
Until they are just a black spec against the horizon
And I can hardly remember their faces .
Then its back on my steed and ride to town.
I go cast more bullets,
I sharpen my blade,
I forge a new dagger,
And my mom sews my fingers back on
And puts my brain back in my head
And pleads at me again and again
“Pick carefully the hill you want to die on.”
But I never listen
I like to practice dying,
So when I find the hill I want to die on
I won’t be the one dying at all.