by Rachel Lynch in

I open to the world like a flower, flesh and bone. I am a million colors, none of them alike. I enter the stone house, where my lover resides, feeling all kinds of beautiful. Some time passes, I leave feeling ugly; empty like the house in which he lives. Elle est morte.

I feel dead upon departure. Outside the hospital doors, they celebrate death. A fallen leader, ashes to the sea and a sign of surrender upon his back. Don't they know that we shall not boast in death? Not even the death of an enemy, the death of a dangerous salesman. Did we ask him to surrender in english, or a toungue he could perhaps comprehend?

Departure from the world and a celebration of life found somewhere in the sky. Where do those go, who were hated so deeply while alive?

death from above.