Mortification

I know the meaning of mortification.
No, I intimately know what it means to be mortified.
There is a reason he’s called a mortician.
It is so much worse than the red burn of embarrassment.
The phrase “I wish the ground would swallow me whole” takes on a whole new meaning. If only that were possible.
If the ground would open up, take me down, and spit me out somewhere around the Polynesian Islands that way I would never have to see the people who witnessed the shining moments (yes, plural) that brought me to this point.
What’s a mortician do exactly?
Doesn’t he take out your organs and replace them with filler?
That would be nice.
Take the brain that can’t stop the replays.
Take the heart that makes me care what they think.
Take my stupid stomach that won’t stop churning.
Take it all and give me cotton. Nice, soft, fluffy cotton.
Cotton doesn’t judge you; can’t tell you how ridiculous you looked; won’t force you to face your embarrassment tomorrow and the next day and the next.
Why can’t I just drop this?
They will forget it long before I can.

I reserve the right not disclose the details of the event/events that inspired this piece.