My room smells like a funeral.
Suffocatingly sweet
stuffed with well wishes
but I never heard the penny plop.
My mother never let me drink her special juice.
Pants around ankles,
crying in the garage because
she just couldn't make it to the bathroom,
could she?
A child isn't meant
to change
her parents'
diapers.

She bought me a bouquet of flowers,
a peace treaty lined with thorns.

I often think upon my funeral,
and I have a suspicion
it would smell a lot
like this.