Saturday, April 13, 2013
The box will be elaborate. A close fit
snug like your favorite closet. There will not
be enough room to turn or spin. Be prone.
Just lie there. I will do all the work.
Your hair arranged in such a way to cover
the damage from the years when vanity
and too many chemicals made it weak.
I remember your suggestion that I cut mine.
Remember that flash in your eyes when I called
you jealous. I made it a joke. Our first fight was born.
You never touched it gently. You only pulled to steer me
in the direction of your choosing.
The sex was rougher then when you could
rein me in strap me down. I thought of only
the pleasure in the act, the noisy slap and pull
not the fact that I couldn't see your face.
There will be no flowers. Just the sickly smell
of too many lit candles and cheap wine.
I brought you the good stuff once. You turned up your nose.
Another clue ignored.
You turned me cheap paper bag. I was folding
compromising my excellent taste.I bought you flowers once.
You chided me for wasting my money.I never occurred to me
that I was also wasting my time.
You told me you liked fake flowers because they never died.
Another clue ignored. Nothing breathed in your house including me.
Stale air recycling to poison.
Why couldn't I just be fake for you?
There will be no music. No food for consumption.
No one will be invited to this funeral.
Just my memories of you in this elaborate box
with your hair products, cheap wine
sickly scented candles and my favorite strap on.
I will bury these deep.Mark the spot with ugly
but alive flowers and try not to rethink
everything about you.