The Prettiest Plot in the Graveyard

[I wrote this as a song, but you can read it as a poem too if you’d like]

 

Maybe a daffodil will grow from the cracks of my skin
Blooming just adjacent to my lips
I hope the buds stay open longer than my eyes
I hope that moss will cover my closed lids.

Bury me between two sturdy tree trunks
A willow or an oak with bluebells there
Crawling up the bark to reach the heavens
In an intimate, a longing kind of prayer

Gardeners will guard my grave like angels
I’ll take dirt stained jackets over wings any day
The clean, bright world above has always scared me
But I know I have to go I cannot stay.

There are things I cannot tell you so let the questions die with me
Don’t wonder why I’m going all too much
I’ve told the answers only to the September wind
Don’t listen to its whistles, feel its touch

Plant roses round my gravestone til you can’t see it anymore
I want to commemorate the living more than me
No one’s ever happy thinking about dead girls
So please hide it – I don’t want the world to see

I want their eyes on nature and on beauty
On the curve of crimson petals and daisy-grass
I may be gone but keep my inch of the world pretty
And through seasons and through years I will last.

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