Who is close enough to listen to my heartbeat? Fetal position around my core in bed every night. There is a seed growing in my chest, and I have to keep it warm. I have never had a plant or a pet, but I know how to care. I pick memories organically and water it with pristine tears. It’s a cherry tree I must have swallowed when I was a child. Grandma would let me eat as many cherries as I wanted — I wasn’t scared of the worms.
Like all beauty, it’s ephemeral. I know someday its branches will stop pushing against my throat. I hope someday its roots will let go of my stomach, hips, and legs. I am feeding it all that used to be me since I don’t function properly anymore. I want flowers to bloom on top of me so no stranger will walk past an abandoned grave.
I tread lightly on the capillaries. Maybe this cherry tree used to be an olive tree. Those grow back after you cut them down. My body brings the Mediterranean heat. Sacrifice is a skill I sharpen every year.
I fall asleep so peacefully that it’s unnatural for me to be awake. 38 BPM — I’m so healthy I would live forever if I never woke up.
But I was told I must.