SELF-PORTRAIT AS LANDSCAPE |
And here I am, lying in the sunflower field, blooms grown high above my head. The scent of sex, of pollen, and the sound of insects claiming this field as their own. If petrichor is the scent that follows rainfall, I must smell like the aftermath of a forest fire. And yellow is too weak a word for these flowers so bright. I envy the way they manage to be beautiful without trying. After death, anyone can see the suffering a body bears but what of the mind? Above me, the sky is impossibly blue, the telephone wires punctuated by birds. I am the sun, burning everything I touch. |