tell my mom that
i didn’t cry, when they
came for me
even if it’s a lie,
especially if it’s a lie
tell her about the
exact jacket and boots
that i’d like to wear,
and to please not put me
in the ground
don’t tell her about the
tears that streamed down
my cheeks and mixed with the
blood dribbling from my
nose and mouth
tell her what i would
have wanted her to have,
and make sure she takes even
what she feels she doesn’t deserve,
because she does
don’t tell her how i kept the
knife my father gave me and
that the blood on it
wasn’t mine
tell her that i’m sorry
for making the conscious choice to
shorten my own life expectancy
so i could live out what was left
of it in the way that i wanted
don’t tell her how the scar stretching
across my chest was too low to be
reopened in autopsy, but the scotch
broom on my collarbones made
the perfect guideline
tell her i saw the sun rise in
pinks and blues that morning,
and turned my face to that light,
instead of away