17.

Nick wrote sth beautiful, he wrote “Let’s be flowers for a while.”

And I want to be a flower, I’ve tried to be a flower, wanted to bloom in the remotest garden or forest in the world, or outside this world, a flower in heaven, or even in hell, I didn’t even want to be a beautiful flower, an orchid, a poppy, a sunflower, I could just as well be wild weeds springing from the death roiling and roasting beneath the layers of earth and dirt and soil; or grass, tall fucking grass behind which a scared child could hide, or a happy one, excited, heart boom-boom-booming in its chest with joy, to sneak up on the unaware friend or parent or sibling and give them the scare of their lives. The mother will take the impish little kid in her arms and whisper:"you had me worried sick".

And I could be a flower, cut, but still undisturbed in its marbled vessel upon the father’s grave, where it’s silent and peaceful, and there’s only the buzzing of summer insects and the chirping and lovemaking of birds, upon tombstones etched with names and dates, and in the winter, gypsies and beggars, palm out for a dime, a crushed cigarette butt, framed pictures of beloved ones rusting away in the rain, candles sizzling to the touch of a raindrop or tear.

Or be a flower that comes to rest above coffin, thrown as a last farewell or due respect, and get buried there amidst the wood, a guardian of the decayed, hidden under shovelfuls of earth, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth”, lost flowers, kissed by worms exuded and given birth to by rotting flesh, where it’s the most quiet and the murmurs of the busy world above are barred or filtered into a song.

Or even a flower covering a shallow grave, skinny naked mangled body underneath, my body dragged there in screams and laughter, died there in bursts of blood and slashed skin and steel blades, excited, crazed by young blood rushing out of huge cuts now resembling mouths, in which the filth of the earth shall inhabit, and grow fungi and moss spitting out of eyes, pores, ears, nostrils, a tune playing in my dying head, it’s Beethoven, I recognize it, can play it by heart, last drops gushing at the elegiac melody, sad, beautiful, sad, beautiful, each touch of the piano key, falling, falling, towards death, bye-bye at last, and the shouts of the world are slowly covered, and dirt fills my eyes, and sun fills my ears, what a beautiful day to die, all nature delirious for you, it wants you more than people ever did amidst them, and the flowers they will embrace you, and the worms they will embrace you, and the earth will cover you soft like the mother all children should have, to cover your ears from the screams of the world, to cover your eyes from its ugliness,

I wanna be that flower.