A Biological Death by Zinnia Hansen (17, Washington)

My hands dance without my body. They are composing a symphony, while I stare at the dead flies decomposing on my windowsill. The eulogy enshrined in my memory of tomorrow is disembodied, as clinical as biology. 
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When we die we are placed in a box. Mine better be beautiful, like heaven, because I hate being a corpse. I hate that my stubborn humanity will keep me from the earth.​

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