Marked With Death

Leaves are my green corset,

they flutter to the dance

of the wind.

I grasp the twigs

in my bare hands,

the book in my lap

feels so empty,

there are no words.

I intend to decorate the book

with nature.

I press the flower into the pages,

I blink at them with eyes fully

open

I can see words.

The flower wilts to the side,

colors fade,
they smear into
corners of the page.