There is a  rose blossom     budding     on the top of my head that  she   kisses

          each night     before I sleep.

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When I gaze at   her hands  the  trees look back  at  me.   Her touch is in   the wind   each time   it

          catches my cheek. She permeates   the   soil like maggots   to a carcass.

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I want   to scrub the dirt   from my bloodstream.   I want   to tear the petals  from my skin.

          I   want  her  to  watch.

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          Oh, my sweet girl. What have they done to you?

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I’ve  watched  her  die and resurrect in  the early mornings before   I’ve become the

          daughter    she  recognizes.

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But  when  do  I  bloom  with  the  rest  of  my  corpse ? When  does  a rose  wither  from  too

much sunlight ? (Impossible; gardeners always pluck them before the sun can choke them out)

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          Why don’t you put on your nice dress, child?

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Fungus  isn't a    flower or vegetable or animal or plant.     It is a category of its own, alive and

          drenched in the  stench   of after-death. It grows from my  left hip bone

          and she     folds      it back into place.

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Can’t  she  feel   the beast  clawing  from  within  me ? Can’t  she  hear  it  in  my  veins ?

          I   am   rotting   in my  ribcage   and  I  want  her  to  watch.

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We bury  my poison  in flora—only  when  she’s  finished  does  she  remember  I’m  still  there.

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          How do you feel, little one?

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Thorns  snag  on  my  inner  thigh. Beauty  must  be  heaven  if  we  suffer  for  it  so  willingly.

 

          (Not like you.

 

                                 Never like you.)

 

          Pretty?

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Pretty.