I am standing at a funeral
reading my depression's suicide note
in front of a crowd that is smiling.
it does not feel right.

this is my own death.
this procession is for me.
the person in the casket is dressed in guilt
—an outfit she grew out of long ago,
but still wore everywhere.
one hand is intertwined with pills,
the other is still trying to find
something else to hold on to.

when the sky becomes overcast
and begins taunting me with rain,
I contemplate digging her back up.
there is a moment where
I want to resuscitate her.
I have never been able to survive
a storm without becoming a part of it.

I will not take shelter in that body again.
I will not wear her skin as a raincoat.
I remind myself that she is where
she always wanted to be,
and so am I.