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Description
When I die, part my ashes
into tea bags and steep me
in the window baskets, or potted plants
on the balcony.

I stare into the mirror, planning
my scars, planning to grow into
marigolds, wondering if bruised skin
is sickly sweet like bruised fruit, wondering
if the sweetness burns away.

You can plant
the stones that were
my vocal cords, and
maybe in the silence
my courage will be concentrated
and push a blossom from the dirt-
Each petal a tiny secret that falls in the autumn
that I never could say
despite the boulders
you said to me.

Description
When I die, part my ashes
into tea bags and steep me
in the window baskets, or potted plants
on the balcony.

I stare into the mirror, planning
my scars, planning to grow into
marigolds, wondering if bruised skin
is sickly sweet like bruised fruit, wondering
if the sweetness burns away.

You can plant
the stones that were
my vocal cords, and
maybe in the silence
my courage will be concentrated
and push a blossom from the dirt-
Each petal a tiny secret that falls in the autumn
that I never could say
despite the boulders
you said to me.