at my funeral

at my funeral,

my obituary is etched into my body

tales of my life transcribed on my skin

 

at my funeral,

i am being read Miranda rights by my casket

i have the right to remain silent, but i don’t 

 

at my funeral,

the priest is praying but it is not for me

it is too late to get a ticket, and the train moves on 

 

at my funeral,

I watch from the back pew, eating popcorn

the kernels pass through my soul, but that’s okay

 

at my funeral,

my family speaks, but I tune them out

I watch the old woman knitting in the corner 

 

at my funeral,

the body is on display but no one looks

the dress they put me in is white, I look so young

 

at my funeral,

they leave, but my mother stays behind to cry

she was always supposed to go first, not me

 

at my funeral,

it is not mine. this celebration of my life is false

I am being detained for the crime of existing 

 

at my funeral,

I dig my own hole. Ghostly fingers pulling up the earth

I put the casket in the ground, I carry it’s full weight

 

at my funeral,

I talk to the body one last time before I leave

and it whispers of forgiveness, of apologies

 

at my funeral, 

I hold hands with another, and we laugh harmoniously

Sinning never felt as good as it did on holy ground

 

at my funeral,

I did not become an angel. I did not become holy. 

It was my awakening. I began to live again.