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