Letter Poem

Dear John

I want to commit suicide
In your claw-footed, white bathtub
To see what red really is, what blood,
My blood, really looks like against
Your ajax-sanitized surfaces.
I want rivulets of blood to seep into
Porcelain pores and stay and stain
In patterns of spurts and splashes.
I want to make your white tub pink,
A pink that lasts after twentyfivethousand bubble baths
A pink that withstands scrub brushes
A pink that matches your water-wrinkled fingertips.
I want those fingertips to trace the stains.
I want those fingertips to wonder why.
I want those fingertips, wrinkles, arm hairs, wrists
To touch and trace, fall into a trance,
Be mesmerized by memory.
I want those fingers to touch a thin, sharp blade
That cuts the stubble clean off morning faces,
That causes red ingrown hairs to form on folds of skin
Along the neck and cheek.
I want that metal blade to be cold every morning.