my dead body alone is prettier than the mona lisa,
with chrysanthemum flowers sprouting from each decaying part.
the blood that no longer pumps through my veins
and my pale skin that’s cold to the touch
expresses a thousand spectrums of beauty
just through the lack of oxygen alone.
with my body sunken into the sweet brown dirt,
fragile and petite arms crossed over my still chest,
i become one with the earth—
ultimately so beautiful, yet so damaged.
it’s a quiet song that echoes throughout the trees,
a sad and sentimental melody on the tip of one’s tongue,
as the golden light of the sun shines down on my resting spirit
that rises up like the growing bud of a plant.
i look so gorgeous, so lifeless.
as if i were a broken doll well used beyond its years.
a nightingale who has lost its tune,
a harp without its strings.
such an alluring blank gaze,
brown eyes dull and staring up at the heavens,
searching for the possibility of a god.
how bewitching i look dead—
still and unmoving,
with no thoughts or no words in my brain or heart.
i want to stay this way forever,
until i, myself, become nothing but weary bones
and simply become the ultimate epitome of beauty.