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  • Jeimmy Grace

The funeral


The smell of roses and decay. Roses meant to mask

the smell of death, the smell of hate, the smell of resentment.

My casket, a perfectly polished black. I asked for white.

My face, once bearing flushed cheeks and pink lips like the satin I lay on.

Are now sunken with blackened eye sockets and purple lips.

A pale face for a pale life.

When I lived, no one cared enough; to make me look decent

even as I lay in my own funeral. Oh the disrespect. The fragrant roses

can't mask the smell of fakery. The salty tears like the ocean, waves

of them dissolve into nothing.

A musky thickness in the air as my soul sinks in the water,

I hold my breath and realize I'm dead. Breathing is unnecessary.

Goodbyes are useless. It won't make you feel better. Just like me,

you'll feel nothing. I'll sink into the depths of the ocean,

you'll sink into the depths of guilt. That's how it goes.

It should comfort you that nothing is still something. I take comfort

in my lifeless void of a corpse. it's still something. Even when

I'm six feet under rotting into the earth, the dirt that becomes me,

I will still be something.


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