Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

30. turnpike at graveside

if i die today,

let me get you flowers,

folded and pressed from notebook pages

bleeding blue and black and red,

like bruises on your shoulder blades

after sex.

i will tuck them above your desk,

and hide them in cupboards

swollen from old perfumes.

yet maybe you will find them

blooming from cracked ceramic creations

you baked in the kilt,

or arranged, a paper bouquet,

whose invisible roots and stems and leaves

threaded into the vacant vases,

thriving on the warm and cold brushes

of your lashes fanning

across my collarbones.

if i die today,

let me bring you cattles,

carved and chiselled from wooden blocks

splintering apart under the swing of an ax,

like the line following your spine

and the parting between your thighs.

i will slip them in your pockets,

and bury them in dressers

distended from stiff linens.

though maybe you will spot them

wandering on the windowsills

between chipped plastic pots of herbs,

or clustered close, a herd,

whose unmoving mouths and legs and eyes

roved across the barren bedside tables

grazing upon the distorted memories and ideals

of your fingertips digging

into my hips.

if i die today,

let me give you clothes,

hemmed and straightened from silken brocade

holding in place by pins and needles,

like jagged bite marks trailing down your chest

and nail tracks embedded on crinkled sheets.

i will stuff them under your pillow

and sneak them in coffers

bloated from a long-emptied void.

but maybe you will see them

draping over the back of the couch

marred from the scars of our masses

or packed, stacked high,

whose tight-knit trims and stitches and fringes

stretched toward its reflection in the vanity mirror

waiting for a bubble to burst from your ribs,

waiting for your laughter, your anger

once you realize i'm gone.

⸻

prompt: co-dependent