I can’t decide which is worse.
The sickly sweet aroma of
Countless wreaths
Or the burning of
Formaldehyde running through my veins,
It doesn’t matter.
It occurs to me that my senses should not be this alert,
I shouldn’t be able to hear
The muted voices, the mournful eulogy,
I shouldn’t feel the satin lining protecting
My icy flesh.
I wonder what comes next.
Shouldn’t I have moved on?
I feel like I’m late.
My funeral drags on.
I anticipate the moment my body is given back to the earth.
Eternal slumber
Six feet under.