If I had the ability, I would apologize for the smear I have
left on your steel table. But, since I do not have the ability to give voice to
my inclinations at this time, I will lay patient while you perform the task
that you have taken on, in service of this body, which I used to inhabit.
Every dead cell you manipulate into position is grateful and
yielding. They thank you. I thank you, inasmuch that I am able. My mouth is
wired to a gentle smile, restful.
Tubes drain me of blood and various waters. Tubes fill me to
brimming with the substances that will preserve this flesh. A kind of simulated
plumpness ensues, which belies my distinct lack of motion and life.
Disinfectant permeates all, for your protection. Though I would have wished to
be stuffed with dried flowers and herbs, I cannot begrudge convention,
especially given my current state.
What meaning would my life have had to you if I were meeting
you just a few weeks ago? This husk, this slough house, a vehicle of bile and
putrid phlegm would have been a conduit of love and ideation. But, the bloat
you slit is not the seat of my intuition. It smells like a dead fart. Thank you
for expressing the contents.
The years I had were bright and warm and beautiful. If only
I had chosen cremation.
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