When I Die
Don’t touch me.
My skin is paper and glass,
Sometimes I forget how fragile I am.
I dive head first into the ocean
My bones crackle like pop rocks.
When I die:
Don’t
swaddle
me
in the dirt,
Decorate
me
with
rocks,
And
parade
me
in a casket.
Don’t give me a shrine,
A death palace with 10 thousand soldiers and mercury rivers.
Don’t glorify
my
rotting
skin,
Paint my lips cherry red and my cheeks mother of pearl.
Just leave me on a stoop.
Let the neighbors scream and cover their children’s eyes.
And even after “they” are called to remove my corpse,
The smell of death has already
assaulted
the
fresh
smoggy
air.
After all, you’re not so different from us.
Just your breath.
But soon gasoline and cigarettes will replace oxygen
And then just the sound of your beating heart
—that is—
until your drowned out by static and radio waves.
It’s funny when you think about it.
We dress ourselves up as kings and queens
Peasants and lords
Suits and ties,
Make crowns and jewels out of green paper,
But once we get too close to the sun
And the earth catches on fire,
we’ll
just
burn
faster.
