My lungs fill to the brim with roses and lilacs.
My bones transform into their stems,
my cells their leaves.
I become a garden
without ever touching sunlight.
Something rooted itself inside me
the day you spoke my name softly-
not enough to keep,
only enough to bloom.
Now every breath is pollen-thick.
Petals gather behind my ribs
like unsent letters.
The doctors call it sickness,
but sickness does not grow this beautifully.
I cough carnations into porcelain sinks,
violets onto my sleeves,
whole bouquets at your feet
while pretending they are accidents.
The worst part is not the blood.
Not the thorns threading through my throat
like barbed wire vines.
It is the way my body
still reaches toward you instinctively,
the way dead flowers lean toward rain.
At night, roots split beneath my skin.
They curl around my spine,
drink from the marrow,
turning me slowly
into something perennial.
And you-
you walk untouched through the greenhouse of me,
never noticing
how every blossom opens
only when you are near.
Soon there will be nothing left
except petals in the shape of organs,
a ribcage woven into a trellis,
a mouth full of spring.
When they bury me,
do not call it a coffin.
Call it a flower bed.