If I were to die
Right now
Would my rotting body
Seep through my hardwood floor
Turning the basement ceiling into goo
Of such a fowl stench, that
The police are called, or
An exterminator
Because of the smell and drainage
Of greenish brown fluid
That my decomposing, shell
Has turned into
And all that would remain
Of my existence is bone
Coated in slime
Accompanied by the retched smell
Of filth
Would my cat
Gnaw at my rotting flesh
Or would she die as well
After all I am meat
Protein for animal nourishment, food
Would it take a day
Days, weeks, or months
Before I was found
Would there be an autopsy
Then, will I be buried
Six feet below
With a mere 20 gauge steel shell
Protecting my coffin
That will buckle with the weight
Of dirt and rock
Or will my goo
Be burned, crushed
Condensed and swept into a box
To be displayed on a shelf
Like a bowling trophy
Left to collect dust
Whatever is in store
For me
It can not come soon enough
And I welcome the Reaper
With open arms

Casandra O’Brien


 
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