I want to rot in a field
with a gentle breeze,
swaying goldenrods, blades of grass that shudder,
and June bugs that dance with the fireflies.

I want bees to land on my corpse,
mistaking bruises for violets
and buzzing in my brain
so harshly, so harsh it rattles my skull and cracks it,
so that even when I am gone, I can hear their humming.
It’s quite a lovely tune, like a harmonica by a dwindling fire
on a late summer night, a hum of cicadas in the distance.

I want mushrooms with an eerie gleam to force themselves through my flesh
and chuckle and sneer when you trip on a protruding root,
lighting the wrong path down a murky forest with low hanging branches.
I want them to leave spores that dot me like freckles,
I want them to sprout in my liver.

I want slugs to steal me bit by bit,
day by day,
leaving slimy paths in the creases of palms,
reading my future, I suppose.

I want to have a mighty tree sprout through my heart and use my body as a home for its roots.
I want raccoons to scurry by me when I reek of death and disease
in search of stray berries.

I want the deer to leap over my still body as they flee from predators,
I want milkweed seeds to root in my intestines
and lead monarch butterflies into me.

I want to decay in a land full of life,
I want to be part of the cycle,
I want bats to eat the flies gnawing on me,
swooping down with not a care for the human intruder.

I want to be found years later
after only worn-out bones and pebbles are left,
I want my cracked skull to be the home of field mice.

I want my ribs to turn into Aloe vera
to protect my heart that’s full of ladybugs and weeds.
I want gnats to swim in my veins and clog my capillaries.

And
I want to do this with my love next to me,
I want them to have ferns sprouting between their ribs
and lilies through their eyes.

I want fuzzy moths that remind you of the old grumpy cat that lives in a library
to get tangled in their hair,
I want crows to rob them of the jewelry they wore before they died.

I want the raccoons to steal her kind eyes
mistaking them for sweet berries,
I want clovers to be stuck in every part of her spine,
disintegrating it, so she may lay forever
with a lucky four-leafed one between every vertebra.

I want the robins to discover her torn knitted sweater
and steal the wool for their nests,
little slivers of stringy material seen by the babies when they hatch.

I want a moose to graze the grass by our hands that are together,
strong, fierce even, and unafraid of us,
what could we,
peaceful corpses lying in a field,
possibly do to the forceful beast that could simply stomp us into dust?
However, it doesn’t.
It curiously sniffs us before it goes to the nearby creek for a drink,
already forgetting we were there.

I want so many things.
I do not want to experience death.

I just want to decay,
gently,
next to a girl who has bugs eating her soft skin
and moss covering her bones.