the shrine

there’s a shrine for you in my ribcage; I built it for you.

I was bleeding by the end. 

I’m sure that’s how you remember me, 

clutching at the gaping wounds in my side. 

you were always telling me you loved me in red. 

vines and flowers wrap themselves around my bones, 

soil takes up all of the space in my lungs, 

restricting every breath I take. 

if they cut me open, it may even look beautiful 

but they won’t be able to see 

that there’s no relief in the exhale.