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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “My Name Is Equality” Down in the Dirt, v198 (the 8/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Final Frontier the Down in the Dirt May-August 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

“Give me something to sing about”

After The Buffy the Vampire Musical—

Kim Malinowski

I don’t have background dancers
nor in sync with any damn beat.
no dizzying snare or slam of guitar rift
just splintered stake in my heart
and the open space you left on repeat.
No demon winding out my secrets with
snazzy syncopation and pizazz
no rewinding episodes to explain
incomplete character arcs about to explode
to every damn character’s demise.
All that sappy hope, the kumbayayas,
all my wounds untreated
none stitched up tight.
Can’t even dance myself into intoxicating burn.
Spike doesn’t stop my frenetic dance to the death
and his eyes don’t meet mine and croon
that living will ease my pain and the suffering
is part of life. A necessary part, sure asshole.
And that no matter how hot he is—
Buffy has dibs and I have to perform my own triage
before the next take. Extract the stake that didn’t miss
my heart, just shattered because the slayer didn’t equip
himself for battle hardened hearts.
So now with tweezer and needle, a shot of Writer’s Tears,
I perform my own triage. Each splinter, each molecule,
because every vampire knows atomic and molecular
structure is the difference between a clean wound
and one that festers for centuries.
I hear deep timber of my slayer’s voice
shards zing out into ink
cacophony of treble clef and the hope for demon
duet with background accompaniment.
I’d take a viola and a trombone or two
in some waltz to the death under a Capricorn
sky and a pilgrimage past pain.
Spike and Buffy could have their fling.
I could have whatever tatters remained of my not
fling that could last centuries or seconds.
And his eyes are cold and soft and rigid and steel
my mouth prepares to sing to the demon’s spell
maybe this time, I would get a dance number.
He smiles, a not Spike smile,
and I sigh a not Buffy sigh.
No one can tell us how to live being us.
My heart stops, waiting for the next stake.

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