dead flowers on the dining room table

i want to be dead flowers on the dining room table

left alone to wither away in my morbid beauty,

admired for it even.

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sometimes i practice being dead flowers on the dining room table

i arch my back high in the air

like a weakened stem wilting over the mouth of an old Ciroc bottle.

i let my hair fall straight down from around my shoulders,

the tips of those strands reaching for the ground

tantamount to petals falling freely upon the dusty granite.

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though there is this certain elegance to a bouquet of lamented florets

that i cannot seem to replicate.

the way they manage to appear abloom within such murky water,

the way they make a home out of place mats and silverware,

the way they make the dining room table look just a little bit like

eden at dusk

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