She has never taken a silver spoon to the contents of her head,
or buried her body in a lover's empty bed.  

She is not the old jacket hanging on the back of the chair-
but the inhabitant, a throne's rightful heir.
I imagine a life where there are no ghosts in the mirror;

when friends talk about their fathers, there's no bile in her throat-
the thought of spilling the contents of her stomach is an unfunny joke.
She doesn't change into her clothes as if a gun ha
d been pulled,

or dream of Icarus’ voice, “Jump” he goads
She looks both ways before crossing the road.

Her fingers don't pry at a laceration's half-hearted mend
or dig into her womb when the wind howls for her end.

Substances don’t brush away her thoughts,
Or birth them again.

This stranger version of me-
probably so easy to understand-
not a martyr in the least.

However,
I imagine without these callous grooves in my flesh;

I couldn't figure out how to fill the empty spaces of others
or hide myself
just right
under the covers.

When they lay me in the ground
stand at the podium and face the crowd.

Don't you dare sugar coat it.

Tell them I was flawed-
recount my selfish manners
and all my reckless bursts.
I want them to hear you say that I
was human at my worst.

In the end it's okay if sometimes
your face is sketched in hard lines.

Let me be a lesson.
I loved them all so genuinely,
often with
unwarranted aggression.

Loaded shotgun, heavy armour-
spray of bullets on a sunny afteroon.

There is nothing you can't ******
even sadness, her silk soft croon.

Avert emotion, convert devotion.
Full of pride, you confront the moon

No one can stop you from moving forward
-force even yourself to hum a new tune

We are still here where you left us,
our voices haunt you every June.