I hate you for keeping me up tonight,
Worry running through my veins as I ask myself,
"Will tonight be the night he does it?"
You won't answer your phone.
******* it, please just answer your phone.
My stomach churns as I wait for your call,
Or worse: The Call.
I've only been to two funerals in my life,
Both for grandparents that I barely knew.
I'm trying to figure out what I'd say at yours.
Would I speak in front of your mourning relatives,
Spitting out cliches about Heaven
And how you're in a better place now?
Would I break down and cry,
Sobbing as they carried you from the church to a car
To a hole in the earth made just for you?
Or would I just sit there, numb,
Empty because everything that made me who I am
Was buried in that ******* hole with you?
You're a coward, I'd say.
An absolute ******* coward.
But maybe I'm a coward, too,
Because the thought
Of having to pick out a dress for your funeral
Makes me want to swallow a handful of pills
And be buried right beside you.
God ******* **** it, don't leave me.
*Please.