What reason have I to be repulsed by my own species?
My own kin, as if my mind is abstract enough to separate it from theirs.
None. Not one that is fair
Because I am as much of a product as they are
Forced to stare at my loved ones
Blue faced in an extravagant prayer laced box
Worth more flimsy green paper than I could accumulate in two years time
And am told to call it closure
As if it wasn’t a complete and utter disgrace to the deadman
Whose soul twitches with embarrassment
Under sorrowful empty eyes.
I’d much rather be a wort covered toad,
Or a writhing worm stuck to the pavement.
A beetle under a shoe,
Or an unwatered blade of grass.
Yes, maybe then, I could leave this foul world in peace when it is my time leave it.
No one would look twice.
No one would have to lower my lifeless carcass into a box
That was half heartedly decorated by the hands of a laboring child
Who never saw my face,
But had to take something home to mother so they could afford supper that evening.
No one would bother to stare.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be cradled like a fool
Or kissed with formaldehyde
As if humans actually cared.