I died today.
You wrapped me up neatly, in a big black bodybag.
Laying there, limp, contained, dead,
I listened
as you dug my grave for me.

You whistled a little tune.
I could hear it through the plastic.
Distantly, I recognised it as something we used to sing together.
Before you killed me, that is.

I'd sharpened the knife myself - earlier that day, even.
How stupid is that?
I used it for butchery. Before I died.
You used it for butchery, too.
Probably, I think, you will continue to.

Some horrible part of me hopes that you will.
Use it in the way I used to, will you?
Treat it with care.
So that, although I am gone (Dead.),
a part of who I once was is still loved.
Is that foolish? Perhaps. It doesn't really matter.
A dead man's thoughts aren't heard easily.

A coffin is a luxury you won't grant me.
I won't be cremated, either, although that was my wish.
(You knew that. You knew.)
Quite quickly, it has become startlingly obvious to me
that I will never leave this bodybag again.

So,
I am going to Rot.
Decompose into nothing;
flesh and blood melting away,
bugs eating at skin and organs
and bone marrow and the apple-core of my soul and-
Well. It doesn't matter.

It will happen regardless of my wishes, now that I am dead.
Now that you have killed me.