Flores para los muertos
But no flowers for me
They belong in the clasped hands of girls who slumber in their coffins,
Pristine with thick walls to keep them safe from the dirt.
I am above ground,
For now,
And cold, I swathed myself with furs.
I dipped myself into water that was not my own
And I dove under and tried to stay.
But I had not the strength,
I had not the courage.
So I cling to the weeds,
And I dig my fingers deep into the soil trying to make my way past the beetles that click as I go by, the naked worms inching along, and the debris that tried to be forgotten,
To my maybe flower,
To maybe my flower.