I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

Bluebirds with yellow teeth licking candy that spills from my head to the pavement. 


Steaming red teacups that walk, funneling tar into gorged eyes and faces. fill your brim to overflow from poisonous spigots. 


Press a gun to my stomach, squeeze my life out as many times as you can, shatter glass frame behind me, and watch something fall that is heavy. 


Head halfway out this window breathing ashes over dry earth, blackened sun, and screaming water. One foot over, let me feel the black sand, too well-traversed my feet' these familiar grounds, three last flowers on the windowsill, fore no longer I make them wilt and die, 5 seconds, twelve feet till bottom, six feet will not hold me, neither does it so well as you do. 


Some Plants and Bandaids for my Shattered Skull