undead

it takes over a year to decompose myself. my gorgeous decay is interrupted and, when pulled out from the ground by a fleshy hand, i arise groaning. i climb six feet towards the heavens, leaving sparse footprints and claw marks on my dirt path upwards. when i return to green grass and breathing people, i am handed a bouquet. is this an apology? are you guilty? is it gratitude? a thank you? the rose thorns do not puncture the skin on my palms. i do not bleed anymore. the red petals fall through my bony fingers. he loves me not.