I want to be a coffin-maker.
And I’d be a renegade coffin-maker,
Breaking the norms.
Just make the coffins a little longer, a little wider.
Just enough space for frozen toes to wiggle,
Just enough height for silent lungs to heave.
And just slightly longer, so that the struggle and yearning to not be Buried has a physical, tangible representation.
Yes, being a coffin-maker sounds good.

Or maybe an embalmer.
And I’d be a renegade embalmer, Making my choices.
I’d sneak in sprigs of lavender under the palms of the bodies,
Something they can cling to as they decay,
Something beautiful in the darkness.
And drip some patchouli into the oils,
So that the smell of rot doesn’t permeate the soil.
Yes, I would like to be an embalmer.

But I could be a priest.
And I’d be a bad priest
Lying and comforting strangers.
Platitudes like ashes to ashes, dust to dust
And empty promises of afterlife As the empty husk in front of me
Will make me question everything I ever understood Of love
Life
Longing
Death.

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