Pickled

When I die

I don’t want to be

Cremated

I don’t want to be

Buried

I would like to be

Pickled.

Suspended in

Brine,

Bread and butter or

Sweet and hot

Would be fine

Don’t worry about

Preserving my color

I’m so pale I couldn’t

Possibly fade from here

My round, cushy face

Bloated and red

My hump glistening

My stretch marks

Purpling

Ahhhhh yes

I want to be

A crunchy pickle delight

Pickled in death

As I was

Pickled in life


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