There is lightning in my sadness.
There is another body inside my body that wants to live
but the rain holds it down like a trapdoor beneath the skin.
Other people sign up for organ donation
because it’s the right thing to do.
I sign up for organ donation
because I believe my life is the wrong thing to live.
My body language translates other languages
that spell out mornings, prayers, love on a looped record, women
who know how to survive without thinking consciously about survival.
There is anarchy in my bloodstream.
All those T-cells working a full-time job
to protect a person who wants to fire her own immune system,
to shut it down like a city loses light when the power goes out.
I am my own ghost in the woodwork.
My blueprint doesn’t want to be used to build a house.
It wants to be used to tear one down.