Do You Really Want To Know How I'm Doing?

Do you really want to know how I'm doing?

I do not wish to unearth what has only just been sealed, where the dirt is still damp from the effort of rejection. The chrysanthemum I placed above the burial ground, its petals come undone piece by piece in the breeze, replacing the droplets that would fall from my eyes as I blink. Even if your hand were to break the stem of the mourning flower, its sorrow exists in a space your negligence is unable to perceive.

With your return came the season of loss I have yet to experience. The fragrance of the blooms that thrive in this season is nauseating, and I vomit as I struggle along its path back to normality. A distinct chill sets the temperature of this season. It freezes one from within, spreading outwards, instead of the reverse. Is it possible for me to survive such harshness? Already my lips have begun to crack, my skin flaking. Warmth has no place anywhere.

What does one know of having to face a corpse sustained by abject repression? What does one know of having to please a corpse that does not feel? What does one know of having to speak to a corpse without saying anything? What does one know of being haunted only by the likeness of a dead man you once knew?

The birth of a newborn does not kill its mother at the first wail.

Do you really want to know how I'm doing?

Do you, really?