The Library

I will write my mind
Into the papery regimented arms
Of Noah Webster.

I will pour the oils of my skin
Into lamps for your tables
So I can light your insides
Like hot coffee or an orgasm.

I will build my bones
Into the framework of your shelves
So that others can drape themselves across me
Like I used to do to you.

I will darken your heavy desks with my blood
So that they will be distinguished
And seem vaguely human.

And I will leave my ashes on your stairs
So that you will not forget me.