When I die, I want to burn. No bloated corpse in a river, no decaying ruins in the dirt. I want to be ash. Incinerated. I want to fertilize the flowers, so something beautiful can grow out of something that was, for so long, abhorrent. In life, I am nothing but misery and bitter jealousy, thinly veiled by a few good traits, whatever they may be, stretching themselves taut over the ugliness that resides within me. The longer I'm around others, the more ugliness begins to seep out from the veil and sink into them, making them bitter and angry, too. It spreads like a virus, a deadly contagion. Everything around me decays because I'm rotten inside, and I've been spreading the filth by simply existing. When I die, by whatever method or circumstance it may be, I want to be cleansed. I want to fly free of my miserable mortal chains. I want to be beautiful for the first time in my existence. I've always thought ash was so pretty, like smoke drifting on the air, settling gracefully wherever the wind takes it. Someday.