Breadcrumb #601

ANA VIDOSAVLJEVIC

Plumeria fragrance suffocates every pore of my body.

Its appealing smell, baby like, soft, mild, excruciates all cells of my being.

Plumeria tree planted in the soil with the placenta.

My placenta.

Your placenta.

I carried it happily for so long.

I carried you with the hope of eternal happiness.

At least as long as I lived.

But darkness, sickness, malady took you.

It took you from me.

It took you from everything that was supposed to be your happiness,

Your joy.

Plumeria flowers remind me of you.

Its fragrance created on the remains of the placenta kills me.

I can’t stand it.

It is cruel.

It destroys my soul.

And maybe that is what I want:

To drink myself to death.

I will keep drinking that smell until it terminates me.

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