do something for me, okay?
tell my story at my funeral.
you’re gonna want to say no,
but how do you say no to a dead girl?
you can’t say no to me anyway, can you?
that’s my girl.
you never could.
so, will you tell them?
will you tell everyone
the reason i’m this way?
the reason my hands are useless,
sewn onto my wrists for show?
the reason you see me beside you,
femoral artery on display?
the reason my eyes stay glassy,
hyperfocused on nothing at all?
will you tell them of all
the things you were there for,
the things you saw,
the things you heard?
how you were the only witness,
every step of the way?
i think you will.
tell it all.
[we won’t mention that
when i needed you most,
at the end,
you weren’t there for me either.]
why didn’t you help me?
why didn’t you tell anyone about
all my razorblades, all my pills?
they were practically hand-fed to me,
and where were you?
right beside me, but not where you needed to be.
not helping me, only protecting me.
you protected me to death.
oh, did that hurt?
my apologies.
i guess i’m bitter.
anyway, the last thing i wanted to say?
is thank you.
thanks for finally letting me go.