Let them put me in my dry grave
with whispers of how much I meant,
and how little to show for it.

Give him red roses like my tattoo -
the same one my father had warned
would last forever.

Put bold ink in my obituary -
and let my mistaken mother
misspell my degree.

They can finally paint my long nails pink
and cover me in
compliments of untimely character.

Or my great grandmother Elizabeths golden rusted rosary's.
My papa will finally have his Rose and Rosalia in one place.

I’ll finally talk to god
and tell him my name was meaningless
I don’t need a name to know the hells I came from.

But they sent me to heaven
only for what I stood for
only after I could
no longer stand it.