Let me Bloom

"From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.”

―Edvard Munch

Let me bloom . Let me bloom and crane my head up to the clouds and see the bright, yolky sun hanging above my face. Let me bloom till the end of eternity - which is forever into the endless, rippling night. Let me bloom and caress the ruffles of breeze in my petals ; petals that are luscious and ripe like a grapefruit. Let me have life - real , tangible life - unlike the undercooked, half-molded life the plants and flowers submit to. Let life be as malleable as wet clay, but let it be that the dried lumps of paste don't stick to your flesh like gray maggots. Let me have what you have, just the sparsest thought of it, and I will be content with life; for what is life when you cannot move outside your iron-barred shell? What is life when your ideas and plans cannot reach your absent lips ? What is life when you are drowning beneath the surface tension - able to see everyone, every human, above the clarity, but nobody sees you or hears your pleas?

I am suffocating in my bird cage ; the canary is crumpled at the base of the bars. Let me out! Let me out! I am swinging back-and-forth, to-and-fro, like an impending pendulum ticking away its hours before the spring uncoils and the machines sputters into disuse. Let me out! Let me out! I was in the tunnels of hell, looking up at heaven. Let me out! My cries are unfinished. Metal against metal scrapes the back of my brain; the noise alien to my ears. The lock clicks - loud and jarring in my ringing head. I will bloom. I will open my petals. I shall cultivate life - drawing it out of others and into my soul.

Settling myself on a host, I consume. I am neither flower, nor human. I rot inside them - I am them; and that is eternity.