Bugs

When I die the bugs may not taste me at all.

If they do, they may taste the honey of my 

words; sweet and light to ensure I won't be disliked. 

If they travel farther, up to my mind or down  my                      

 throat, they may choke on all the harsh words left unsaid. 

Down to my lungs they’ll taste the sweetness of roses, rich 

musk of jasmine, and the creamy underlying spice of lilies. 

Lower to my stomach they’ll find it hollow— empty 

from the need to look like everyone else. 

Perhaps they’ll taste the shame and hate for my own 

figure, or the guilt of not being enough. 

After all of me has been consumed, they’ll be left with a bitter aftertaste.