I read somewhere, a girl saying she couldn’t die with a messy room.
My bin is full
My socks aren’t paired
There’s cups on my desk leaving rings
There’s probably something in the wall
Eating crumbs I leave in crevices
What will happen to it, once I’m gone?
Who’s going to stay awake listening to it scratching if I’m not there?
Who’s going to balance the cups precariously down the stairs
Who’s going to line my shoes against the ottoman
Tuck the sheets in
Who will empty my bin?
How embarrassing, how embarrassing
I cannot die with a messy room
There’s books half-read and stories half-told
And t-shirts I have yet to fold
There’s things in the fridge I’ve yet to eat
And papers that aren’t lined up neat
And there’s things I haven’t thrown away
And things that I have yet to say
And emails I have yet to write
And candles I have yet to light
So death must wait another night, another night, another night
I cannot die with a messy room
No matter how peaceful my little tomb
I have things to do, things to do, things to do
I cannot die with a messy room.