Tombstone

My body is like a tombstone. Like all of the bodies that have left me. Like all of the me’s that have left me. All of the me’s are dead. Some haven’t even been buried yet, some haven’t been saved, some are 6 feet deep trying to crawl their way back out. I can feel the hands crawling up my throat and I cough up dirt. What do you follow when your heart is in a grave? I chisel RIP into my hips and no blood comes out. I wonder if that means I am the body waiting to be buried. I cremate myself so the wind will take me where I need to go. But now I am in multiple places, lost in California and Wisconsin. Stuck on a plane and inside a bathroom stall in Denver. In a meadow far away and taken under by ocean tides. I wonder if there’s a new and better me somewhere else, whole and happy. I wonder if she found our heart. I wonder what she decided. I wonder if she bleeds. I hope she bleeds but I hope she never finds out if she does. I hope I reach my final form before dying. I hope I am not stuck as this dust storm. I hope this dust storm is not my death, because that’s what it feels like. If this is my death, please make sure the rest of the bodies get buried. Don’t confuse those bodies for me, I already had funerals for them long ago. Have my funeral on top of a hill where the wind is strongest so you can hear my voice whispering. Go where there are lots of dead leaves so I can write you a message. Do not cry, for I am already drowning in an ocean somewhere. Do not give me flowers, because this is not beautiful and I don’t want to watch another thing die. Simply hang up the wind chimes, and listen.